


A Porthos Romance

by sfrost



Category: Anime Sanjuushi | Three Musketeers, Aramis no Bouken, The Musketeers (2014), d'Artagnan Romances (Three Musketeers Series) - All Media Types
Genre: Adventure & Romance, Female Inventor, Friendship, Gay Male Character, Gender Confusion, Gender Disguise, Historical Romance, Leonardo Da Vinci - Freeform, Multi, Secret Society, Sexual Content, Strong Female Characters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-23
Updated: 2020-09-30
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:27:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 36,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25456213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sfrost/pseuds/sfrost
Summary: Porthos is falling in love with the spirited inventor/scientist Marianne de Dandurand.Meanwhile, the relationship between Athos and Aramis (female version of Aramis) is threatened by the arrival of a handsome stranger.Set after the battle of Belle-Isle. A new adventure. A sinister plot.The Iron Mask returns with a vengeance.
Relationships: Aramis (Female)/Athos | Comte de la Fère, Aramis (Female)/Original Male Character(s), Porthos du Vallon/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 8





	1. Prologue: One for All, All for One

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Faux Semblants](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/653953) by Yael92. 



> This story takes place in the ANIME SANJUSHI universe but some characters, dynamics and dialogues were inspired by the BBC's TV Series The Musketeers (2014). The musketeers in this story are the same as those in the Anime, NOT in the show. That being said, Aramis in this story is a woman disguised as a musketeer to avenge her fiance (Aramis no Bouken).  
> The character of Marianne de Dandurand is an original character and was inspired by two women in the BBC's The Musketeers:  
> \- Alice Clerbeaux (S1E8: The Challenge)  
> \- Samara (S2E3: The Good Traitor)
> 
> The events of this story occur AFTER the events of another fanfic story written in French by Yael92 called "Faux-Semblant", in which the musketeers finally discover the real identity of Aramis while on a mission. Athos and Aramis fall in love.  
> Link: https://www.fanfiction.net/s/13363699/1/Faux-semblants
> 
> Thank you for stopping by and I hope you will enjoy this!

The tavern was full and the mood celebratory. The musketeers were sitting at their usual table, lined with four glasses of frothy liquid and several empty glasses on the sides, marking the passage of time in good humour.

Yet despite the never-ending supply of food and beverage that made its way to their table, Porthos was not in the best of spirits. He stole a glance over his drink at Athos and Aramis, who seemed to have locked eyes with one another, exchanging a passionate gaze with wry smiles. Despite their careful discretion of their relationship, they seemed in too good of a humour tonight to be subtle with their interactions. No doubt they plan on taking this disposition to bed with them this evening, Porthos thought to himself. 

D’Artagnan, standing by the table, his back turned to his comrades, was being congratulated and patted on the back by the other musketeers. He had proposed to Constance earlier in the week and she had accepted.

It had been a year and a half since the events at Belle-Isle and about a year since Porthos and Athos learned the truth about Aramis. Since then, the devoted friendship between his closest friends evolved into a passionate and unquenchable love affair. At first, Porthos had trouble accepting it. But after seeing how happy it made his friends, he gradually warmed up to it. They were his best friends, after all, and their happiness was his happiness as well. The changes brought about by this new dynamic were subtle: for example, when Athos and Aramis shared a room in an auberge during a mission, it was inevitable to deduce what they would occupy themselves with at night. During battles, Athos now seemed more concerned and attentive about the safety of Aramis than his other companions and vice versa. Although their attentiveness to each other in dangerous situations was not to the point of completely ignoring their other comrades, it was still obvious enough for Porthos and D’Artagnan to notice. And so, Porthos found himself spending more time with D’Artagnan during missions and any free time they were accorded from their Captain.

The company of d’Artagnan was always pleasant, filled with good humour and funny situations. He was also a talented swordsman and creative on the battle field, which made him an ideal comrade-in-arms for the adventure-loving Porthos. The only thing the company of d’Artagnan lacked was a mutual appreciation of women and the pleasures of the flesh. For that, Porthos had to content himself with the company of other musketeers.

The news of d’Artagnan’s engagement to Constance was only a matter of time. The musketeers often made jokes and hints to d’Artagnan that Constance is becoming impatient and that if he does not propose soon, she might just leave him for another man. Then ruder jokes would follow as to whom that man might be, to a point that someone once suggested Rochefort, which merited d’Artagnan’s fist in that musketeer’s face.

But in this current jovial atmosphere, instead of relishing his friend’s happiness and celebrating, there seemed to be a dark cloud hanging over Porthos’ head. What was this feeling anyway? Jealousy? Porthos never wanted love or marriage. He would never think of keeping a wife nor of ever leaving his musketeer life. But there was something he couldn’t help but envy in the way Athos looked at Aramis or touched her or ran to her side after a skirmish to make sure she was well. Or something in the way Aramis tended to Athos if he was injured, or cautioned him on drinking too much or playfully teased him. There was a private intimacy between his two friends – a private space that he was not allowed to be admitted to. And it now seemed that a similar affliction will be claiming their other friend, thus leaving Porthos all by himself.

Lost in his thoughts, he was brought back to his body by a sharp pain radiating through his left side. Startled, he turned his head to see that he had just received a jab in his side from the musketeer sitting beside him.

“Porthos!” Her blue eyes, luminous and joyous of late, having lost their habitual sadness that they carried all those years he’d known her, were looking up at him with concern. This whole time, he had been twirling his glass in between his fingers on the table, lost in his reverie, without realizing that his friend was calling out to him. He chugged a generous amount, and turned to her with a big smile, as he rubbed at his side. For a petite stature and delicate features, she always surprised him with her strength and the steel-like feel of her punches and throws. 

“What are you doing?” questioned a bewildered Aramis, as Porthos got up and straightened himself out. 

“I was thinking to get an early night’s sleep in preparation for training tomorrow morning,” he replied, absent-mindedly, without looking at his friends.

Aramis’ eyes widened more. She looked to Athos for some help. He quickly came to her aid, realizing the extreme unusualness of the situation, “Porthos…” Athos began, with a very concerned tone and, speaking slowly, he reminded his comrade that the Capitaine had given them the day off tomorrow in honor of d’Artagnan and Constance’s engagement, on orders from the Queen herself.

“Indeed…,” Porthos said, slowly, looking up, as if hearing this news for the first time. A loud noise came from a different table. A quarrel? It attracted his comrades’ attention long enough to enable him to slip out.

“Port-,” Aramis began, turning around and interrupting herself, realizing that he had left. She looked at Athos, who mirrored back her concern and worry. More food had only just arrived at their table and Porthos had left before it came.

They said nothing to each other for a while, stewing in stupor. Aramis decided to break the silence, “Do you know anything that has happened?”

Athos searched his memory. Nothing seemed to come to him. Everything seemed normal; they have had no quarrels. They fought side by side as always, they drank together, ate together, laughed and fought off the Red Guards together. It is true that they have been spending less time together since he and Aramis began their affair, but Porthos always had other pursuits anyway. At the end of an evening, when Athos left with Aramis, he always glanced back to see Porthos comfortably installed with a woman, and sometimes even more than one. 

Aramis’ thoughts followed the same procession as Athos’, except that she suddenly realized that something was deeply amiss. She remembered remarking to herself one time a few weeks ago that Porthos had not been eating as much. In fact, she had joked, rather insensitively, that he had become slightly leaner. The giant did not seem amused at this joke, which took her off guard at the time. What’s more, Porthos who normally takes pleasure in giving a solid beating to the Red Guards, seemed distracted during their latest skirmish to the point that she had to come to his aid. She hadn’t thought much of it at the time but now it seemed that all these subtle events were amounting to a worrisome realization.

Of course, everything was fine, to her and Athos. They were finally together after many tribulations and misunderstandings. But during their tumultuous affair, they had thought of no one but themselves over the last year. This thought made her flush. She felt overtaken by a sense of shame, accompanied by a heartbreaking sadness and disappointment in herself: she had neglected one of her truest friends. A friend who was always there for her, who comforted her, protected her with his life, who accepted her as she was even after she had lied to him for years. She felt as though she had abandoned him. Not only had she been inadvertently ignoring him, but she had put him down and treated him with complete ingratitude and insensitivity.

Seeing the look in her eye, Athos looked around before he sneaked a squeeze on her wrist and looked deeply into her eyes.

“Do you think we were selfish?” she questioned Athos.

He was taken aback. Selfish? Why, because they wished to be together? But then he understood.

He tried to speak in a low voice, “I didn’t think this would bother Porthos. He was fine with it all. Besides, we are discrete most of the time.”

How could she explain this to him? Athos was the sharpest and most observant man she had ever met but he sometimes did not fully comprehend the multifaceted nature of people, and especially not when it came to matters of the heart. After all, the fruition of their relationship was fraught with misunderstandings, to say the least.

“It’s not about us, Athos. What if Porthos is lonely?”

Athos released her hand and laughed heartily. “Lonely? Porthos has everything he wants in life: women, food, friendship, adventure, a glorious career, honor and freedom. What more could a man want?”

Aramis shot him a dark look, “Freedom and women? And is that what you want, Monsieur Athos?”

He walked straight into that one. Bashful, he lowered his head, “Not in the least, my darling,” he whispered, “You know I only ever want _you_ and nothing else in my life. There is nothing that could make me happier than you,” he said, with a charming genuine smile. His eyes shimmered with a look of love and tenderness.

She smiled wryly, she won this round. How she loved toying with him!

Seeing her appeased, he continued, “But this is Porthos. He’s different. This is what _he_ wants.”

Still, Aramis wasn’t convinved. If Porthos was lonely, or he was upset because of them, she intended to make it right no matter what it took. In a hurry, she excused herself and left. “Aramis, let it be…” Athos called after her, grabbing her wrist. She shook his wrist off, placed her hat on and left. Athos sighed in exasperation. Ah, but he was in too jovial of a mood mood and decided to remain a bit longer at the tavern before joining her later for a night of passion. There was no use talking to her now anyway. She was always in better spirits after a good session of lovemaking, which is what he had planned on anyway.

Porthos stood on the bridge, looking at his reflection in the Seine, illuminated by a full moon. Even though he left the tavern before hearing any of the words Athos had said, the same thing was going through his mind. He had everything he could want: an appreciation of good food, beautiful women who wanted his company, loyal friends and comrades-in-arms, illustrious adventures, a trembling reputation as a valiant warrior that struck fear into his enemies’ hearts and above all, a musketeer’s honor.

But where did this sudden feeling of emptiness come from? Or was it really sudden? It had been creeping in gradually over the last few months, he now realized. The adjustment to the relationship of his comrades was not easy but he thought he had adapted rather well. What he didn’t count on, however, was what this change in their dynamic had brought to him personally. It made him examine his own life. He had never felt lonely. He always found friends and comrades or company with women. But now he saw a different facet of human relationships and it made him uncomfortable to know that its absence in his life was causing him to feel a sinking sensation within his heart.

He stared at his reflection. His dark curly hair fell to his shoulders. His body was naturally large and muscular, according him an unparalleled strength as a warrior. Appearances aside, he caught a gleam of sadness in his eyes that he had never seen before. A feeling of loss came over him. Was he mourning the loss of a friendship or a lack of something in his life? He hated being plunged in these… _feelings_. It wasn’t like him at all. He took a deep breath, through which a waft of familiar perfume penetrated his senses. He felt a warm presence around him and a friendly hand on his shoulder. It was a loving hand, a caring hand. He looked to his side to its owner and was greeted by such tenderness. The blue in her eyes was accentuated by a tearful glisten. Had Athos upset her again? He looked at her, concerned.

“I’m sorry, Porthos,” she began, her voice shaking. Turning to her, he put both his hands on her shoulders and then brought his fingers to her cheeks, wiping the tears that she couldn’t hold back. He looked at her, perplexed. What was she sorry for?

She broke away from him and wiped her eyes with the back of her sleeve, sniffling. Ever since the truth came out, she became more comfortable displaying certain vulnerabilities of her feminine side amongst her closest friends, but especially to Porthos. He was her protector, the guardian of her secrets and feelings. She reproached herself on this spectacle, embarrassed and adamant to exercise more control over her emotions.

“I never realized how selfish we were. ‘One for all and all for one’…” she trailed off, bitterly, ashamed of herself for neglecting their oath.

He smiled at her, indicating to her that he understood, “It’s still the same, Aramis,” he said trying to reassure her.

She smiled weakly at him, “But it’s not, really… is it?” Her blue eyes had a way of seeing into the souls of those they looked into.

He smiled sadly and turned away, back to the river. He cleared his throat a few times, in an attempt to hold back any tears. He was sad too. The acknowledgement of it made it all too real. They stood in silence for a while, letting the emotions wash over them. Finally, Aramis broke the silence.

“Remember when we had a fake funeral for d’Artagnan?”

Porthos laughed. The conversation moved on from there, taking the habitual turns and detours that were characteristic of two old friends reminiscing. They spoke about battles, laughed to tears and teased each other mercilessly. It felt right and familiar, just like it had always been.

The conversation eventually reached a halt. The silence engulfed them in a new wave of sadness, a mourning of some sorts. As if the trip down memory lane was a tribute to something that had died. But it was also cathartic. They stood facing each other, Aramis kicking a rock off the bridge, her hands in her pockets, Porthos looking out onto the water where the rock had landed.

She then took both his hands with hers and looked him in the eye. Her eyes were flooded with the utmost tenderness that can only be found amongst the most loyal of friends and the most noble and honorable of individuals, “We will never leave you alone, Porthos.” This was a promise.

He hated showing his vulnerability. He did not want her to know he was scared, or that he was having these feelings of sadness and emptiness of late. But Aramis had a way of knowing these things without him having to verbalize them. With her, he felt comfortable being vulnerable.

He squeezed her hands, shrugged his shoulder and smiled bashfully. He looked down and in a thick voice, he said, “I know you won’t.” He took her in his arms and squeezed her towards him.

When they broke apart, she grinned widely, “The King’s ball is next week,” she elbowed him playfully.

They were on duty during the ball but they were allowed some breaks for dancing or socializing.

“I hear there will be a lot of attractive young ladies this year,” she continued, teasing. One detail he would never miss about the male version of Aramis was his prudish nature and resistance to women. But now that Aramis was free to be herself, she was at liberty to point out beautiful women to Porthos, share her comments on their appearance and personalities and even venture a few tips here and there on what is pleasing to women in bed or what would be an appropriate gift for a mistress he was courting.

“Well, then, the ladies can all line up behind the dessert table because I will certainly be a busy man!” he joked.

She burst out laughing and, linking her arm in his, her body naturally leaned into his, she led him back to the tavern, all the while smiling and laughing. If anyone knew how to cheer Porthos up, it was always Aramis. Some things hadn’t changed after all.


	2. An Eccentric Woman

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Introducing Marianne de Dandurand, Porthos' potential love interest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Marianne de Dandurand was inspired two women in the BBC's The Musketeers:  
> \- Alice Clerbeaux (S1E8: The Challenge)  
> \- Samara (S2E3: The Good Traitor)
> 
> And also by Claudine, the leading character in Colette's novels, Claudine.

"Absolutely out of the question!" yelled the old man, in a rage, slamming his palms onto the thick mahogany desk, causing a rattle.

“This is but an attempt to control me," a sharp voice retaliated. His outrage and aggression did not move her one bit.

She was accustomed to this side of him and this was only the latest in a series of much more heated arguments that have been taking place over the past few weeks. They usually ended in screams, tears, both or a frigid icy silence.

He let out a sarcastic laugh. "Control you?" He shook his head, amused at the notion. He began taking off his cufflinks and rolling back his sleeves, a habitual ritual before he pored himself into his work.

It was getting dark, and the sun had just set. The sky was pink, turning purple in places. A few stars were already shining in the East. It was a fine summer evening fit for a brisk walk in the field, but the inhabitants of this chateau seemed to want to be nowhere except enclosed inside its cellar.

However, this was no ordinary cellar.

It was larger than any traditional cellar, spanning almost the entire length of the floor above, with the exception of a small room which was dedicated to housing barrels of wine and storing preserves.

The space was well-lit, with multiple chandeliers hanging from the ceilings and the walls. There were shelves lining the entire wall, behind the desk of the old man, overflowing with leather-bound books. On his desk were several flasks made of glass, some were burnt or impregnated with dust, along with some metallic objects and high stacks of notebooks, disordered papers and empty bottles of ink. He had shoved all the contents of his bureau to the sides to make space for a large piece of parchment which looked to contain the rough sketches of a blueprint of some sorts.

All throughout this enclosure, the walls were lined with tables or equipment for dedicated purposes: metal work, carpentry, chemical compounds, more books and notebooks and a space for discarded items. In the middle of the room was a platform on which stood a nascent structure made of wood and metal, with a label engraved on a golden plaque underneath that spelled “Prototype”.

In short, it was an inventor's dream. And the inventor in question had all the funding to graciously support his endeavours.

Taking turns between rolling back his sleeves and glancing at her, he coldly said, "I rather think I spoiled you too much. You're becoming quite unruly."

This infuriated her more. She grunted loudly, stomping her feet.

"You know absolutely nothing of love and certainly nothing of a woman’s heart!" she snapped, her voice becoming shrilly. Then, regaining some composure, "Well, if I'm becoming unruly, you're becoming a mean-spirited curmudgeon with every passing day.”

He rolled his eyes at her.

"My dear," he began, taking a deep breath, bringing his hands together as if in prayer, "I do not refuse because I wish to control you. Far from it. You know that I have given you everything I could possibly give you. I have given you all the riches, jewellery and beautiful gowns that any woman within miles would envy,” he paused, letting it sink in.

But perhaps she was right. What _did_ he know of women and what women wanted anyway? When it came to her happiness, he always felt as though he were in the dark. He thought that giving her all those things would bring her pleasure, appease her, but she barely took to them.

_He had never longed for a family – he had never wanted children nor craved to leave a legacy of heirs behind him. No, his legacy was elsewhere. It was in his creations, in his discoveries. But when that unfortunate accident struck, his life was, as he thought at the time, not changed but barely indented. He had planned on being minimally involved in the child’s life: he would engage governesses, ensure that the child was well-fed and well-clothed, allow her a few social opportunities and then provide her a generous dowry so that she can be out and married by the age of 15, leaving him in peace and back to his solitary life once more. In essence, it would be an involvement that could be easily appeased by wealth, not requiring the sacrifice of his precious time or mental energy._

_Alas, life always had other plans._

Taking another deep breath, he continued, softening his voice, “I even took to your education myself instead of hiring an intolerable governess - not that any person out there would have been able to teach you anything…”

_He had opted to begin her education as soon as she came to live with him, at the age of 5. Against the recommendations of the governess, he commissioned her to begin a difficult curriculum of French, English, Spanish, Italian and Latin in order to keep her and the governess both busy, so as not to have to interact with either of them too much. But by the age of 6, she had mastered all, and was increasingly becoming bored and unchallenged. This boredom seemed to create an ideal space for tantrums and temperamental exhibitions of frustration, causing a lot of trouble with the governesses and thereby for him. He consulted tutors to teach her arithmetic, philosophy, and astronomy, often receiving replies that enraged him. The tutors were scandalized by the notion of teaching a girl these advanced topics and were even offended by the mere request._

_He began to believe it was almost sinful to waste her potential and talents and so, admitting defeat, he took it upon himself to tend to her education in a way that would be useful to him as well. He began allowing her into his workshop for some time during the day, during which he would teach her basics of astronomy, mathematics, and medicine. He would then send her out to play in the fields with the stable boy to get rid of any excess energy so that her mind was clear for a lesson of philosophy in the evenings. To his surprise, she never complained about any of it. Her tantrums became less frequent and he found himself not simply tolerating the time spent with her, but actually deriving some enjoyment from it._

_As she got older, she began spending more and more time in the workshop of her own accord, conducting her own experiments and discoveries or assisting him with his. It was the only time they had spent together in complete harmony, shrouded by their intellectual commonality and the nature of collaborative spirit shared amongst scientists and inventors._

She interrupted him, "Yes, I am fully aware and I thank you very much, Uncle, but why would you not wish to grant me just this one thing? It’s very simply and not at all unreasonable,” she implored.

Ignoring her, he continued with his monologue, "And especially, I have rescinded the title of the estate to YOU, after your parents’ passing. Willingly I have done so. Pray, what other relation would do so with an orphaned niece who was left to them as a charge?”

She rolled her eyes - _again with the title_. He himself was in no need of a title. He had bequeathed it to his younger brother after their father died, rejecting the responsibility and allure that it entailed, preferring a solitary life spent in exploration and invention. With his brother’s death, the title reverted to him once more and he chose to give it away to the only living relation he had left and, whom he believed, contrary to common tradition, the title should belong to. And so was the title of Comtesse de Dandurand bestowed upon the 18-year old young woman currently imbuing him with her latest tantrum. Her fiery amber eyes glowed orange in the candle-light of the workshop, contrasting her dark auburn hair that fell voluptuously in waves midway to her back.

While the bequeathment of the title sparked some controversy in society, it was soon forgiven and attributed to his eccentric ways. And quickly enough, the new Comtesse was accepted and the noble families in the region began lining up their sons for her hand in marriage.

She groaned and rubbed her temple. These arguments were starting to give her headaches.

“As to why my answer is “no”, is a simple matter: I do not care for him one bit. He is not a good man and I am never wrong in my judgement of others,” he turned up his nose at her.

She grunted. “But you are evidently wrong in this case, because he is a true gentleman. He … _loves_ me,” she pleaded with him.

Suddenly, a smile appeared on his face, as if some spirit whispered something funny into his ear. A small laugh escaped him, “And yet, imagine YOU in white nuptials! What a hilarious irony!”

Her cheeks turned a crimson red. Her eyes, widened with rage, the orange shades interlacing with brown and yellow, mimicking a fire dancing in her eyes. Her palms automatically rolled themselves into fists, her nails digging into the inside of her palms.

A timid chuckle came from the far corner of the room. Her uncle glanced at the young man in the corner, pleased to see that he was of entertainment - _so he wasn't becoming too much of a curmudgeon after all!_

She squinted at her uncle, "And what is _that_ supposed to mean?" She said, through clenched teeth, knowing full well what he meant.

“Well, the fact remains that you are the ultimate conquest of all the eligible men for miles around,” and with a wry smile, he continued, “and it is hardly a secret that you have done nothing to discourage them.”

At that, she let out an indignant gasp. Too shocked to retort, her cheeks reddening more and more, almost becoming the color of her dark auburn hair.

He continued, still in good humor, “But it really is my fault. I allowed you to attend balls unchaperoned and given you all the liberties to display yourself and conduct yourself as you please with the men.”

He never prevented her from attending any social events she desired. In fact, he found it refreshing to regain some solitude. Besides, they were still a noble family and their presence in society was a requirement to maintain their wealth and status, without which he would not be able to pursue his passion. He was relieved to leave that aspect of their lives to Marianne.

“Unchaperoned?” she cried, turning around and pointing a finger to the corner of the room, “Gerard is constantly by my side, as per your wonderful instructions, spying on me, following me around, how much more chaperoning could I possibly get?”

“Well, it is evident that Gerard is not an appropriate chaperone, otherwise, I wouldn’t hear of your reputation from my acquaintances all the way from Paris.”

Gerard was bashful. He sighed and shook his head. He turned around from them, busying himself with the task of cleaning some instruments. As much as he tried not to be involved their arguments, Marianne somehow always dragged him in. But that was the way things were between them. Their lives were intertwined since the beginning. Everything Marianne does, he always seemed to get dragged into. He never minded, though. She was his only friend in the world.

“And what, simply because I talk to men or go unchaperoned, then you assume that I have shared my bed with them?” She said, attempting to provoke a scandalized reaction from him. “Certainly, it is because you believe that women are the creatures of the devil and one cannot do any better than to control them, is that so? We are all witches and seductresses?” She raged.

He was poring over the sketch on his desk, with charcoal in his hand. Unshaken by her tantrum, he began tracing lines onto the paper.

“My dear, do spare me this talk. And believe me, women and their affairs are my last concern in life, I assure you.”

 _Well, maybe you need to lay with one or two every once in a while_ , she thought to herself.

As if hearing her thoughts, he looked up from his designs, with a dark scrutinizing look in eyes. He shook his head slightly, sighing. He extended his hand and asked her to pass him a long ruler on a table behind her. She obliged him.

"If you must know, I am still virtuous. I have never allowed anyone to approach me in that manner that you seem to imagine,” she said, her head high with false dignity. _But why should this be a dignified matter?_ she always thought to herself, _men went around and shared their bed and love with anyone they desired and that was not undignified._

He continued to trace lines with the ruler, his brows furrowed, "Very well, then" he said absent-mindedly. "But in any case, this matter means nothing to me,” and then lifting his head, he pointed the ruler at her and said, “And it should not matter to the man you will choose to marry.” He then quickly added, “Even though it is my preference that you remain celibate.” He betrayed his own sentiments by saying those words, which he immediately regretted. While he saw in Marianne a prodigy and a useful assistant, it scared him to admit to himself that she had become more than that. She had become a companion to him, and in all the best ways: he shared his life’s true passion and purpose with her and she had more than accepted it. She embraced it with an equal passion and talent for it as well. In a way, she made him understand the feeling of leaving behind a legacy.

“But you are mistaken again, anyhow, “she continued, “Because there is no man in the world to whom these “matters” do not factor in.” In a defeated tone, while tracing imaginary lines on the table, she added, "This is exactly the dilemma. I was born into this abominable sex and there are limitations that exist for me from birth.”

Without looking up, he said detachedly, "The dilemma is that you do not realize just how lucky you have been. I do not wish to repeat myself concerning everything I have given you in life, but I implore you to look at how you compare with other members of your sex who certainly _are_ restricted in every manner you speak of." Jokingly, he added, "Indeed, though, my life would have been much quieter if you were a boy.”

He looked up from his designs, concerned by a lapse in conversation and a lack of a smart retort. He glimpsed tears at the corner of her eyes. While he was not a soft-hearted man, he was not a cruel one. Nor did he desire to inflict pain on her, but he knew that some things must be done to protect her. He came out from behind his desk towards her and cupped her face with his hands. They were rough and calloused, with dried ink permanently lodged in between the wrinkles of his aging skin.

Then, he said matter-of-factly, in the only way he knew how to impart an affectionate statement, “You are the most intelligent person I have ever known. What tragedy would it be if you were to marry someone like Maxim de Rameau.”

He sighed and continued, softly, almost affectionately, with sadness in his voice and a quiet exasperation, “Why do you even wish to become someone’s wife in the first place? It will only place you in a cage. You won't be able to do all this." He gestured to the workshop around him. "Your time will no longer be your own, you have to put up with someone's company for the rest of your life. He will control your wealth... not to mention children, my goodness! The mere act of having children. I implore you to think of everything you would be giving up."

He was staring into her amber eyes - forever changing, depending on the light; currently they settled on a dark yellow - her irises dancing in the light, glistening with tears.

"For love...?" she said, her voice shaky. Even she didn’t believe herself as she uttered those words.

He grunted loudly, exasperated, he threw his hands up and began walking away to fetch something from across the room, "Honestly, Marianne! I did not raise you to become an imbecile,” he shouted behind him.


	3. Preparations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The main characters get ready for the event in which they will all meet.  
> Highlight: Aramis wears a dress!

The thundering sound of approaching steps echoed on the stone floor in the hollowness of the adjacent pantry, finally coming to a halt as Marianne stormed into her uncle’s workshop. She stood shoulders back, daggers in her eyes, auburn hair trailing behind her like a blazing fire. She was dressed in pantaloons and a loose white chemise fitted to her size, in a fashion similar to a riding habit. Teeth clenched, she wrangled her brown leather gloves between her hands. 

_What now?_ The old Comte thought to himself, barely shifting his attention from a screw he was fastening. A white apron was draped around his waist and his face was partially covered with thick glasses.

Their morning had been productive and they had accomplished a lot, building the piece of equipment he was currently tinkering with. With a sense of satisfaction after a long day’s hard work, Marianne had excused herself to go change for luncheon. And now, ten minutes later, all the good humour from earlier seemed to have dissipated. Marianne’s moods were only second to the weather when it came to predicting them.

"There is a gown fit for a queen hanging in my boudoir,” she said accusingly, “With an accompanying torturous garment, which I assumed was a most detestable and deeply unforgiving kind of corset,” She added.

When Marianne reached her bedroom, she was instantly greeted by a splendid shimmer coming from an exquisite piece of fabric hanging in her boudoir. It was by far the largest and most beautiful gown she had ever seen in her life, let alone worn. The fabric was golden, with varying shades of intertwining gold and silver thread embroidered along the lengths of it in exquisite patterns. Next to it, was a matching golden corset. When Marianne held it up to examine it, she found it stiff and unrelenting; the complete opposite of the linen corsets she was used to wearing. It struck her that, despite her aristocratic origins, she led a rather simple life. All the gowns she had had in her life were simple, innocent, mostly pastel in color; the kind only fitting for country balls. As she caressed the fabric of the skirt between her two fingers, its thick lustrous feel wreaked of royalty and bourgeois. It made her uncomfortable.

"Ah yes, I may have neglected to mention it to you earlier, but we are going to a ball next week," he answered, nonchalantly.

Marianne raised her eyebrows, “ _We?_ ” Marianne had never been to a social event with her uncle before. Aside from it being highly unusual, it sounded like a fun spoiler.

"Yes, the Cardinal has graciously extended us an invitation to the King's ball next week. I think it would be a good idea for you to be introduced in high society. It is time."

She rolled her eyes, and grunted. This was certainly about Maxim. Although Maxim came from a noble family, he was still provincial. Did her uncle think to change her mind by introducing her to the men of higher nobility and rank? But of course, there was also the matter of the Cardinal - the only man in the world her uncle did not despise.

"Well, if it's the Cardinal…" she said mockingly.

"I rather like the Cardinal and enjoy his company. His conversation is… what’s the word? Ah yes, scintillating."

"He's an evil man," Marianne retorted disgustingly. She knew all about Cardinal Richelieu, his cunning ways and unrelenting attempts to influence the King to seize control over France.

"He's strategic and calculating. I rather admire that about him," he said, looking up at the ceiling, as if lost in a reverie. “Besides, he always has some interesting ideas for us to work on,” he added.

She was about to say something when he put out his hand in an attempt to stop her. "I thank you to leave the conversation at that."

She turned around to leave when he called out to her again, "Marianne, do you like it?" His tone was soft.

She grinned. "It's…what’s the word? Ah yes, scintillating.” With that, she left.

“Clever girl,” the old man chuckled to himself.

.....

“Please, monsieur, Porthos, if you can stay still for just a moment longer,” came the voice of an exasperated Bonacieux, trying to secure the measuring tape along the length of the outstretched arms belonging to the large musketeer.

Porthos frowned, “Bonacieux, you’re acting like it’s the first time that you’re making me a doublet.”

The measuring session was taking longer than expected. The musketeers had rallied at Porthos’ to set out on their daily rounds when Porthos announced that he was expecting Bonacieux, but that it should not take more than a half hour.

An hour later, Aramis was pacing in the room, while Athos was comfortably seated in a wooden chair at the corner of the room, deeply absorbed in a book. Occasionally, Aramis would creep up behind Porthos to check in on Bonacieux’s progress.

“Your measurements are smaller than usual,” declared Bonacieux. He walked over to the table to write down his measurements and unfold the fabric samples he had brought with him. With her hands folded across her chest, brows furrowed, Aramis stared at Porthos’ figure. She had noticed that he was looking slightly leaner.

Bonacieux called over his client for the fabric selection. Both Aramis and Porthos joined him at the table. With the same degree of enthusiasm, they were both were poring over the samples, caressing them to feel for the texture, and mixing and matching the colors. Aramis would hold up some samples close to Porthos’ face to see what would work best against his complexion. For Porthos, this exercise was a self-indulgent pleasure in his pursuit of luxury. But Aramis was determined that Porthos look his best for this ball. She was also determined that Porthos finds a woman worthy of him and if not at this ball, then some time soon.

Occasionally looking up from his book, Athos would sigh and shake his head. He had warned Aramis to give up this notion but she was undeterred, believing that everyone deserves a chance at love, even the freedom-loving and hedonistic Porthos. _You simply can’t change the nature of people_ , Athos would argue.

Satisfied with their selections, Bonacieux began collecting his things and taking them out to the cart that d’Artagnan was bringing around with the help of Rossinante.

Porthos had been carefully observing Aramis as she kept gravitating towards certain colors, a look of longing in her eyes. Glancing at the door to make sure Bonacieux was out of earshot, he said in a low voice, “Why don’t we let d’Artagnan take your measurements and Bonacieux can make you a new gown?”

It had been a while since Aramis herself was measured for a gown. These rare and enjoyable occasions, when the musketeers’ presence at Porthos’ coincided with that of his tailor’s, had become a way for her to live vicariously through Porthos when it came to fashion. Despite the fact that Porthos was not shopping for dresses, Aramis took pleasure in the intricacies of clothes-making.

Athos looked up from his book, his interest piqued. It had been a while since he’d seen the woman he loved and desired in a dress, showcasing her beautiful feminine form. He longed to dance with her at a ball, to show her off and then to take her home afterwards and take pleasure in ripping off her corset, and making passionate love to her by lifting up the skirts of her dress. But the situation was too dangerous and the consequences of anyone finding out her true nature were disastrous. Perhaps on another mission outside of France, he consoled himself.

She smiled at him and shook her head, her thoughts echoing those of Athos’.

D’Artagnan walked into the room to gather the last items for Bonacieux when he overheard Porthos. With a grin, he exclaimed, “I have an idea!” and dashed out before anyone can utter a word.

They looked at each other, confused by the young man’s comportment. D’Artagnan returned swiftly, with a parcel in his hand. He closed the door behind him gently and turned the key in the lock. A smirk was dancing on his face. Porthos and Aramis turned to him with questioning looks.

Ignoring their reactions, he carefully placed the parcel on the table and began to unwrap it. The tissue paper fell away, revealing an elegant Prussian blue gown, with a high neckline, embroidered with golden silk thread and a stomacher made with exquisite lace. D’Artagnan held it up for them to admire. Aramis gasped.

“How beautiful!”

D’Artagnan winked, “And it’s just in your size.”

They all looked at him in surprise. “D’Artagnan, where did you get this from?” questioned Aramis.

“It doesn’t matter, I already sent Bonacieux away with Rossinante. I said I had urgent business with the musketeers and that I will catch up to him in time at Madame Chambord’s to return her dress. He won’t notice, I promise.”

“But…” Aramis was speechless.

“Try it on!” D’Artagnan pushed the dress towards Aramis.

The three men in the room were looking at her, encouragingly. “Come on!” prodded Porthos. Athos, still silent, was looking on with great interest, his book lying flat on his lap. She looked at him imploringly. Wasn’t he their leader? Wasn’t he supposed to put a stop to these funny shenanigans? But he did not seem in the least inclined to discourage this. _Oh well_ , she thought, and headed into the adjacent dressing room.

A few minutes and a thousand curses later, Aramis stepped out timidly.

“It’s not perfectly to my fit, but…”

She was a divine vision. The rich blue of the dress perfectly contrasted with her golden locks, simultaneously bringing out the deep azure in her eyes, like stunning sapphires. Athos stood up to admire her, completely besotted. He felt such desire and tenderness in his heart: this bewitching goddess belonged to him.

“Well, Madame, may I have this dance?” Porthos bowed, extending his hand.

“Why, certainly,” she smiled warmly, blushing. She joined her hand in his, as he placed his arm around her waist and they pretended to dance. Aramis, not having danced since her adolescences, was tripping and stepping on Porthos’ toes. Their pretend dance was punctuated with hearty laughs, an endless stream of curses and scathing but playful remarks from Porthos.

Athos was gazing intently at Aramis: the way she moved, the way the dress accentuated her delicious curves was just feeding his carnal desire for her.

Porthos playfully jabbed at him, “You’re not jealous I’m dancing with Aramis, are you?”

Feigning indifference, Athos replied, “Only if you keep your hands in their appropriate place.”

He twirled her around a few times, making her laugh uncontrollably at the absurdity of the situation. It made Athos smile. Eventually, Porthos twirled her around towards Athos, who caught her before she lost her balance.

With his strong arms wrapped around her waist, Athos dipped Aramis, making her giggle. She stopped upon seeing his gaze, full of desire and passion. He danced well. His noble roots and aristocratic upbringing made him a splendid dancer. But she did not want to inflate his ego just yet. Playfully, she said, “Well, Porthos dances better than you, Monsieur Athos, what do you have to say to that?”

Athos, feigning indignation, “Does he?” He lowered her more, kissing her passionately, and for her ears only, “Well, let’s see if you’ll have a different idea after I’ve finished with you tonight.” With a swift move, he brought her back to her feet. With a playful smile, and an anticipatory gaze, she gently pushed him away by placing her hand on his chest. Once free from him, she took d’Artagnan’s arm and wrapped it around her back, prompting him to dance with her.

“By the way, d’Artagnan, you must learn how to dance properly before you become Constance’s husband. She won’t want you if she sees how you really dance,” jested Porthos, adopting a look of pity.

Athos smiled at his friends and went back to his book, leaving them to their fun. A warm feeling spread through his being. Love and friendship, what could anyone want more? Perhaps Aramis was right after all.

.....

“Enter,” a crisp voice came from the depths of the grand room.

The man who entered bowed. “You Eminence.”

“Ah, Rochefort,” the Cardinal greeted his visitor without looking up from his papers.

“You wanted to see me?”

Stamping his seal onto a folded letter, the Cardinal finally looked up, “I am expecting some important guests at the King’s ball next week.”

“Naturally,” replied Rochefort, slightly inclining his head.

“One of my guests is a rather…,” the Cardinal paused searching for the right words, “…eccentric fellow.”

“Oh?” Rochefort was intrigued.

“He is somewhat of a recluse and does not venture out into society. But as it happens, he has accepted my invitation. He has also written to inform me that his niece, to whom he has bequeathed the County of Dandurand, will be attending with him and is to be presented at her first ball in high society.”

“Bequeathed his title to his niece?” Rochefort was shocked.

The Cardinal rose from his seat and walked towards the window, his back to Rochefort. “Yes, as I said, an eccentric fellow.”

“Forgive me your Eminence, but I am surprised that you would keep such company if…” The Cardinal turned around abruptly, interrupting Rochefort with a dark look.

“The Comte de Dandurand,” he continued, irritated, “Or I should say, the former Comte, has shown himself to be a very important and useful individual to France. His inventions are ingenious. You might recall the submarine that we had commissioned for the King two years ago, before the unfortunate incident of the Iron Mask.”

“Indeed,” Rochefort nodded slowly.

“The Comte and I have many things to discuss and if all goes well, I shall commission him for a large endeavour for the sake of France. Our enemies grow bigger and we must have an advantage. A mere armada is not enough.”

The Cardinal stroked his beard absent-mindedly.

“I believe the Comte hopes his niece will make a good match. And as a token of my appreciation for him and my continued interest in his work, I offered him my own lieutenant to escort his niece to the ball. And if all goes well…” He trailed off, lost in his own schemes. 

Rochefort instantly frowned, a ball of rage building up in his chest. So, his plans of finding a fine aristocratic woman or two to take up as mistress during the ball have officially been foiled. Instead, he will be escorting a nobody, a provincial girl. He was always loyal to the Cardinal, but sometimes the Cardinal’s schemes did not run in Rochefort’s favor. Why must his superior be so exasperating?

Sensing his tension, the Cardinal wanted to appease his most loyal servant, “I have heard that she is not bad looking and I suspect that with the bit of toilettage that I will afford her, she may even be to your taste.”

An interesting offer. Perhaps he can get something out of her at the end of the night. These provincial country girls are known for their unruliness and lack of manners. Besides, the sheer size of the ball, the extravagance and the glamorous attendees will undoubtedly shock her. She will be left feeling shy and vulnerable, as is the case with unexperienced young ladies coming out for the first time. A cunning smile formed on Rochefort’s face. This might be fun after all.


	4. The Ball Part I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Porthos meets Marianne for the first time.  
> Aramis saves the day!  
> Rochefort makes an appearance.  
> Introducing Gerard de Villebois, the servant of the Dandurand household.

Cardinal Richelieu was deeply engaged in a hushed conversation with an old friend when he stopped short. His companion turned around to investigate the source of the Cardinal’s abrupt silence.

Neither of them remarked the facial expression of the servant who stood behind them, but the young Gerard de Villebois – servant of the Dandurand household – was just dumbstruck as his master and the Cardinal.

Descending the marble stairs in the Cardinal’s reception area, delicately holding the banister with one daintily-gloved hand and another lifting her skirts, a ravishing young woman gracefully made her way towards the two men.

In reality, Marianne de Dandurand was trying hard not to trip and break her nose. She could barely see her feet from under this gigantic skirt, and her balance was threatened with every step she took. Moreover, the tight corset she wore restricted her such that she was unable to fully bend at the waist, further impeding her from tracking the progress of her steps.

She had never felt so physically helpless in her entire life.

With difficulty, she finally succeeded in arriving safely at the landing. She took a deep breath and smoothed out her skirts. She grinned inwardly to herself as she entertained the admiring looks of those in attendance. Despite her displeasure at this monstrosity of an outfit, she herself couldn’t help but admire her breathtaking reflection in the mirror.

One had to admit that she was a divine and captivating image: her auburn hair was coiffed half in an elegant updo, while the rest flowed down in elegant curls to her shoulders, framing her cheeks and showcasing her neck. Her dress shimmered both in color and in extravagance, giving her an air of high-born royalty. Her amber eyes glowed in shades of gold and brass. Her form was upright, elegant, her corset highlighted her natural curves and bringing out the fullness of an alluring bosom.

Following a few seconds’ delay, her uncle awoke from his entrancement and quickly pranced over to her. He bowed slightly, offered her his arm and walked her towards the Cardinal. “You look ravishing, Marianne,” he was beaming.

She curtseyed for the Cardinal a courtesy fit for a king.

 _Very well, if it’s a snobby aristocrat you want, then one you shall get,_ Marianne thought to herself.

She had no patience for pretense. She also detested the Cardinal and intended on mocking him as much as possible - even secretly to herself.

Alas, not noticing the exaggeration in her manner, the Cardinal was flattered.

Then, rising up to meet his gaze with such confidence, she spoke:

“My Uncle and I are grateful for your generosity, Your Eminence. Please forgive my tardiness.”

She bowed again. The Cardinal had offered them accommodations for the ball and toilettage for Marianne.

The Cardinal looked Marianne up and down, his eyes lingering on her neck and chest.

“Naturally, young ladies must take their time in preparation. You are most welcome in Paris, Madame la Comtesse.”

In reality, Marianne had dismissed the ladies waiting on her and spent the last half hour attempting to hide a dagger up her stockings - a common practice when going out for long walks in the country, where one never knows what wild predators there might be. A ballroom in Paris was no different.

Hearing familiar footsteps behind him, Cardinal Richelieu turned around:

“Ah, Rochefort, there you are. Allow me to introduce the past Comte de Dandurand and his niece, Comtesse Marianne de Dandurand.”

Marianne stiffened at the sight of the newcomer. Despite his seemingly noble origins, nothing about him indicated that he was a true gentleman. He wore a malevolent look on his face that was further accentuated by a black eye patch covering one of his eyes. _Predator number one_ , she thought, feeling reassured by the coldness of the blade under her dress.

“The Comte de Rochefort at your service, Madame.”

Rochefort bowed slightly to Marianne, his one eye returning her gaze with a greedy one, before finally resting on her bosom. _Not bad, Rochefort thought to himself. Not bad at all._

“Marianne, the Cardinal has further extended his generosity by offering his most trusted lieutenant to be your ball escort,” her uncle announced.

Marianne looked up at her uncle, questioningly. An escort? Wasn’t the point of a royal ball to be presented in society and to dance with different partners so as to increase one’s value in the hopes of making a good match? While Marianne wasn’t the romantic type, she was at least hoping to make the best out of the situation in which she was involuntarily roped into. She intended on enjoying the ball as much as possible, counting on the fact that she could certainly escape her uncle by losing herself in the crowd. Apparently, this wasn’t meant to be.

And then there was Maxim, her lover; the man who wanted to marry her at all costs. Would he hear about her being escorted to the ball with someone else? She had the feeling he wouldn’t be too pleased about it. But her interest in him was already waning. These arguments about him with her uncle were just exhausting and he was becoming too possessive for her liking. How could she have even thought of marrying him? Sometimes she felt as though she had no choice. It was probably because she truly didn't have much of a choice. After all, Maxim knew her secret. Perhaps it was time to cut the cord once and for all, but certainly not with a man like this Comte de Rochefort. She grimaced.

Still frozen in place, lost in her thoughts, she was brought to back by the sound of a deliberate cough from her uncle.

Composing herself, she bowed again to the Cardinal and murmured a “thank you”. Satisfied by Marianne’s beauty and good manners, the Cardinal wore a triumphant smile. He gestured the group towards the doors. They turned around to leave when Rochefort offered her his arm, barely glancing at her. She threw a beseeching look behind her at Gerard. He shrugged, and gave an encouraging smile. “Don’t worry, I’ll be there,” he mouthed to her.

Reassured, she took Rochefort’s arm and they walked into to the carriage headed to the Louvre.

....

The Royal Ballroom was beginning to fill up. Aramis was restless, carefully examining every person who walked through the big splendid doors. Porthos frowned.

“I’m sure we’ll have no trouble tonight, you don’t need to be so uptight.”

“You never know,” replied Aramis, without humour. In reality, she was scrutinizing every woman in attendance. Porthos deserved the absolute best and she will help him find it. 

“All is well?” Athos had come by to check in on his comrades.

“Aramis suspects that everyone here is a terrible menace, part of a secret conspiracy,” Porthos jested.

Athos grimaced. “We all know our posts and shifts for the evening?” he said, trying to get Aramis’ attention and shift it away from the attendees, “Captain de Treville is counting on us to make sure all is well and secure tonight.”

“Noted,” she said, coolly.

Athos frowned. He leaned closer to her and whispered, “You won’t leave this alone, will you?”

She shot him a challenging look.

He shook his head and sighed. “Fine, but don’t say I didn’t warn you,” with a wave of his hand, he left them to their post.

When Athos left, Aramis looked at her companion. Porthos was looking exceptionally fine with his new habit this evening. He was already attracting the attention of many women with his easy charm and generous smiles. Of all the musketeers, Porthos was the most agreeable, the friendliest, the most loyal and sometimes the most gullible. If Porthos were to find a woman to love, then it must be necessary to find one who was good-hearted, honest and noble in all meaning of the word.

Interrupting her train of thought, Porthos gently nudged Aramis, “Madame Claremont looks rather ravishing this evening, _n’est-ce pas_?”

Her gaze traveled to where Porthos was pointing. Madame Claremont was a robust lady, with exaggerated curves that she seemed to love to show off in her selection of dresses. She wore perfectly coiffed ginger curls, possessed cheeks that were naturally flushed and her eyes glowed bright blue with a perpetual mischief in them. She was always rambunctious in her manner, a notorious flirt among the courtiers. Porthos used to frequent her at a certain point but they ended it a while ago when she went traveling after a scandal.

Spotting Porthos, she winked at him and gave him a suggestive smile, while tracing her fingers on her cleavage, and licking her lips seductivelyIn response, Porthos began to make his way towards her when his wrist was firmly caught by his companion. Aramis did not look approving. But then again, when was she ever approving when it came to women? Even when she was a man, Aramis was always the prude, the preacher, the fun-killer.

“Come on, Aramis, it’s Madame Claremont! You remember her,” Porthos groaned.

“Unfortunately, yes,” replied Aramis drily. It was a memory she had hoped to forget. Once, the musketeers had planned to meet at Porthos’ house before the start of a mission. Since Aramis was early, she decided to wait outside for Athos, when she suddenly heard a lady screaming. Instinctively, she barged into the house, only to find a nude woman bent over on the stairs, with an equally nude Porthos behind her, performing an aggressive rhythmic move as the lady moaned and cried, “More, more!” Horrified, Aramis involuntarily cried out, placating her hand on their mouth, frozen in her steps. Upon seeing her, the couple abruptly stopped and ran up the stairs to get dressed. Porthos hurled a stream of curses to which his lady responded with wild laughter. Then, as she was leaving, Madame Claremont came up to Aramis, “I’m sorry you had to see that, handsome,” she winked and slapped Aramis’ behind.

“We’re on duty tonight. Besides, not everyone is here yet.” She said, scanning the room once more. There had to be someone better than Madame Claremont.

Porthos huffed at Aramis. He gestured towards the room, “Everyone who is important is already here. And aside from Madame Beauchemin,” he pointed to an attractive petite brunette, “who does not want to see me anymore because of some sort of misunderstanding about another woman, there is no one more attractive than Madame Claremont.”

“Not everyone,” said Aramis, finally turning to her companion, “Cardinal Richelieu and Rochefort aren’t here yet.”

His friend was clearly losing her mind. What could possibly interest him about the Cardinal and his natural-born enemy, the Comte de Rochefort? Despite their collaboration in Belle-Isle, Rochefort was still as disagreeable as ever.

“Aramis, you’re being ridicu-“ Porthos began, when suddenly the room stopped. As the Cardinal made his entrance, the attendees and the dancers along his path stopped to bow and greet him. He walked in with an older man by his side, with whom he was happily conversing. The Cardinal, in turn, would stop here and there to greet those of importance to him. He seemed remarkably jovial, prompting both musketeers to exchange looks. 

And then, trailing behind the Cardinal and his guest, the smug face of his lieutenant, Rochefort, made its appearance amongst the crowd. Naturally, he was attired in the most expensive and perfectly tailored habit. But the most distinguishing feature of Rochefort this evening was the presence of a breathtaking lady on his arm. Invariably, it could be said that she was the most beautiful woman in the room. To top it off, she had auburn hair, Porthos’ favorite.

Aramis grinned triumphantly and said preachingly, “Patience is a virtue, my friend.”

“Well thank you, Aramis. Now I can enjoy _looking_ at the most beautiful woman in the room without any hope of approaching her. Exactly what I was hoping for this evening,” he said sarcastically.

Porthos was right. For about two hours, the lady in question hadn’t left Rochefort’s side at all. In fact, the party she came with remained rooted in the same spot throughout this whole time, save for an occasion when they had gone to present their respects to the King. Clearly, whoever she was, she seemed to be an important person. The worst part was that she was important to the very people the musketeers loathed: The Cardinal and Rochefort.

In any case, her allure was slowly fading for Porthos. Despite her astounding presence and unrivaled beauty, there was a certain coldness in her eyes, a disdainful look. She barely danced or conversed with anyone. She seemed haughty and irreproachable. Porthos snorted, _Those high-born aristocrats!_

Porthos was once again in vile humour. He even thwarted all of Madame Clairmont’s attentions, who, evidently found someone else very quickly. And with his head down, Porthos left to take up his scheduled post outside of the ballroom, leaving behind a disappointed Aramis.

.....

After watching her for a while, Aramis began to notice that the lady’s disposition shifted periodically from looking down, to taking deep breaths followed by resting her eyes intently towards a point on the wall adjacent to where Aramis was standing.

And then she saw him. A handsome young man in a servant’s attire. His hair was golden brown, with untameable locks falling onto the side of his face. His skin was tanned in that characteristic way of farmers or country folk who spend long hours in the sun. They probably came together from the same estate, Aramis thought. Was he her lover?

Aramis was caught off guard when the gaze of the young man suddenly turned on her, as he became aware of her watching him. His eyes were a bewitching deep green. Aramis blushed and turned away, yet she could still feel his gaze on her. She looked up and caught his eye again. It was intense, riddled with some passion and desire. But how? Is it possible that he knew she was a woman?

He turned away abruptly from her, cutting off their eye contact. She followed his gaze to see what caught his attention and ended up witnessing a series of events that confirmed her suspicions from the beginning: The lady with Rochefort was not there out of her own will.

Rochefort had rudely pressed Marianne to dance.

“Please, sir, I assure you I am not a suitable dance partner,” Marianne was protesting. But he was undeterred and too strong for her to resist. She tried to retake her wrist from him but he only pulled her closer to him, his hand wrapping around her waist. She let out a small cry. He brought himself nose-to-nose with her.

“I’m sure you have many charms that will compensate for your skill,” he said, slyly, his eye moving down her bare neck towards her bosom. She tried to pull away again but he held her closer. She then felt his hand move lower, where he took the liberty to grab her behind. Like a wild animal, Marianne pushed him away with all her strength and slapped him straight across the face.

Then, horrified by the scene she had created, she held up her hand to cover her face, now turning deep crimson, and began to shuffle through the crowds, looking around for an exit. Rochefort looked disdainfully in her direction and moved towards the edge of the crowd. To his misfortune, his superior had witnessed the entire spectacle and Rochefort had turned around to see him standing right behind him, with a menacing look on his face. His hissed at Rochefort, “Do not embarrass me, Rochefort. Follow the girl and bring her back this instant.”

In her frenzy to find an exit, Marianne was stumbling and bumping into the crowds in a most ungraceful manner. While it was funny to watch, Aramis understood perfectly: the “lady” was just a provincial girl in the wrong place, forced into the company of the wrong people. An all-too familiar story.

Marianne kept looking behind her when she saw Rochefort headed her way. She began to feel sick. What will he do with her now? She needed to get out. She was gasping for air. No, she cannot faint, she was better than that. Ah, but this corset was tugging so hard. Rochefort was getting closer. Where was the exit, for God’s sake? Almost on her tail, Rochefort was close enough to touch Marianne when she felt a pair of strong arms pull her from the waist and whisk her off to the far corner of the room, near where the King and Queen sat.

It all happened so fast. Marianne’s rescuer hid her behind a curtain, allowing her to catch her breath, before reappearing again. Marianne had her back to the wall, when the young man with flowing golden hair and piercing blue eyes reached behind her to pull a lever. It was a door. Marianne looked at him straight in the eyes. He looked back at her. For a moment, Aramis was mesmerized by Marianne’s amber eyes, now turned a dark orange.

In a melodic Alto voice, the stranger spoke, "Run along this corridor, turn right, take the first door on the left. It should take you straight to the King's private gardens. I will come find you later.”

"Wait, but you are..."

The girl was holding onto Aramis’ arm, looking bewildered.

“Aramis of the King's Musketeers at your service," she bowed.

"Thank you, Aramis. I’m Marianne.” Aramis smiled warmly at her. It all made sense now. From her lack of formality, Aramis could sense a warm disposition underlying that haughty and glacial attitude. No doubt a defense mechanism in the company of unpleasant people. Her eyes had a quiet calculating defiance in them. Six years ago, that might have been Aramis herself.

“The pleasure is all mine. Now you must hurry before Rochefort comes,” she said, gently pushing Marianne and untangling her arm from her.

“But wait, you're a...,” Marianne was besides herself. Was that a _woman_ in musketeer attire? Was she hallucinating? It must be all the excitement clouding her judgement, and yet…

"Hurry," hissed Aramis. Marianne lifted her skirts and ran, the door behind her closing shut.

Aramis had blockaded the door, stood legs apart and arms crossed. She puffed her chest out and pushed an earnest Rochefort away. "No one is allowed in there tonight, even you, Rochefort,” she said commandingly.

"Out of my way, Aramis,” Rochefort growled. _Damned musketeers!_

Aramis placed her hand suggestively on her sword.

"What's all this?" Came a calm yet assertive voice.

 _Another musketeer._ Rochefort grunted

Through clenched teeth, he said "The lady I was with needed some air and she took the wrong exit door. I am to go find her but Monsieur Aramis here is blocking my way."

"That's not what it looked it to me," snapped Aramis.

"And what would _you_ know about women, Monsieur Aramis?" menaced Rochefort.

 _You have no idea_ , thought Aramis.

Trying to regain control over the situation, Athos stood in between them. "Calm yourselves, both of you. We can’t attract attention at the King’s Ball."

Feeling their bodies slightly relax, he continued, "It's alright Aramis, let him through.” The he whispered to her, out of Rochefort’s earshot, "Porthos is patrolling the gardens. I'm sure he'll appreciate that we send him some entertainment."

A devilish smile tugged at the corner of Aramis' mouth. Through all the excitement, she had forgotten that Porthos was posted in the King’s Private Gardens. She stepped aside. Rochefort brushed closely past her, threatening her with a menacing look. 

When he was gone Aramis breathed a sight of relief and closed the door behind her. She and Athos stood side by side guarding the door, shoulders touching. She subtly leaned into him.

"How I wish I could dance with you,” he whispered to her.

"You forget, Monsieur, I'm a terrible dancer." She looked up at him her blue eyes shimmering, melting his heart. He smiled, recalling that innocent afternoon at Porthos’. Backs straight, arms behind their backs, Athos’ finger reached out and held Aramis’. They stood side by side as soldiers, their fingers intimately dancing together as lovers.

Throughout the excitement, Aramis hadn’t noticed that the handsome young servant had followed his mistress to where Aramis had led her and was now standing inconspicuously watching the door, when he saw the two musketeers holding hands. _What can this mean?_ _Could it be that, as he hoped, the blond musketeer preferred men?_ But there was no time for this, he had to find Marianne.


	5. The Ball Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Porthos meets Marianne de Dandurand.

Marianne found herself facing a large fountain with a marble statue of a nymph placed in its center. She made an attempt to plop down onto the wide edge of the basin but her tight corset reminded her of her inability to move.

Hearing a commotion, Porthos had quickly made his way through the hedges in the garden towards the entrance. There, he saw that young lady by the fountain, slightly crouched over, her hands on her hips, her gaze fixated onto the tiled floor, as if frozen in place. She appeared lost in a daze that even his appearance did not move her.

“May I be of assistance, Madame?” he said, carefully approaching her as one would a wild animal.

Marianne jumped and Porthos froze. Her face was completely flushed, her forehead was glistening, her chest heaved violently up and down in a heavy breathing rhythm.

They contemplated each other silently for a minute or so. The man in front of her was tall, of a big build, with arms that looked strong enough to lift the fountain behind her. His bulky legs looked like they were sculpted purely from muscle. In short, he looked like someone you did not want to meet in battle. Yet, despite his colossal features, there was a certain honorableness, warmth and kindness in his eyes.

She was about to say something when the sound of heavy footsteps, echoing from the hallway leading to the door, stopped her.

Panicked, she ran towards Porthos, “He’s here! Please don’t let him see me.” She dashed behind some bushes, trying hard to pull in her skirts about her. Her corset was digging into her waist at this point and it was becoming painful. Marianne bit her wrist to control the pain.

Instinctively, Porthos unsheathed his sword in anticipation of the newcomer. Who could it be? Who was this woman and who was menacing her? Could it be that she was running from… as the name was coming to him, a breathless Rochefort penetrated the gardens.

Yes, to the last question, Porthos thought, as he put his sword away.

“Where is she?” Rochefort yelled.

“Where is who?” Porthos replied, nonchalantly, keeping close to the bushes where Marianne was hiding.

“The young lady who ran into the gardens not 10 minutes ago, you imbecile!” Rochefort raged, taking a step closer to Porthos.

Porthos, in turn, took another step towards Rochefort, towering over him with his immense countenance. “As you can see, Monsieur _le Comte_ ,” he gestured towards the empty gardens, “There’s no one here.”

Rochefort was fuming, his hand traveled to his sword.

For a few seconds, neither of them spoke. Porthos looked mockingly at Rochefort while the latter glowered.

Finally, Porthos ventured, “Did you check the cellars? Perhaps the lady in question took the wrong door on the way here.”

“I know full well she’s not in the cellars because it was your insipid comrade who led her here. And knowing Monsieur Aramis, he wouldn’t let a lady end up in the cellars,” retorted Rochefort.

_Oh, but you know nothing of Aramis, Rochefort._

“Now move away and let me search these bloody gardens!” 

Marianne stiffened.

Porthos crossed his arms on his chest, “I’m afraid I can’t. This is Musketeer territory and currently under _my_ protection.”

Swiftly, Rochefort pulled his sword and put it to Porthos’ neck. Porthos stiffened. _Very well, Rochefort. If it’s a duel you want, it’s a duel you’ll get. Looks like there will be some fun after all!_

Porthos grinned and in the blink of an eye, he grabbed Rochefort’s wrist, deflecting the sword away. Still keeping a tight grip, he proceeded to twist Rochefort’s arm, pushing him violently against the wall by the entrance, where he sank to the ground. Porthos took a few steps back, keeping an eye on his adversary, as he pleasurably cracked his knuckles and neck.

Back on his feet, Rochefort lunged at Porthos again with his sword. The giant briskly unsheathed his and the blades clashed. The clink of metal on metal continued on for a few minutes until Porthos disarmed Rochefort and with his iron fist, pinned him against the wall. Porthos’ other fist was inches from Rochefort’s face when Rochefort cried, “No, I beg you!” Porthos stopped midway. “Fine, I’ll leave, but take your fist away from my face.”

Porthos smirked; he wasn’t going to hit him anyway, but it was fun to make him think so.

Rochefort smoothed out his habit and hair, trying to regain some of his dignity. The last thing he needed was to show up with a bloody nose to the King’s ball. The disapproving look of the Cardinal was imprinted in his memory. He cleared his throat, “Which way is the cellar?”

Putting his sword back and grinning, Porthos replied, “Second door on your left from here.”

Grunting, Rochefort left. Porthos followed him long enough to make sure he was truly gone. Then, straightening his own clothes and hair, he moved towards the bushes to see the lady struggling to get to her feet. She was about to topple over when he caught her by the arms and lifted her up. His strong arms lingered around her waist a bit longer than necessary. Their eyes met, hers were bewildered with embarrassment, his with a smiling warm disposition. She lowered her gaze and he let her go, reluctantly.

“Is he gone for sure?”

“I can assure you he shan’t be back. But should you wish to join him again…” he trailed off, gesturing towards the door.

“Heavens, no!” cried Marianne. Then, catching herself, “I meant, perhaps not just yet.”

He bowed his head in acknowledgement, smiling at her. She looked so different here than in the ballroom: so wild, so colorful, her eyes expressive and bright. There was nothing of that glacial haughtiness.

“Yeah, Rochefort is not the most charming man out there. Curious choice on your part,” he jested.

Marianne chuckled. “If you must know, it was _not_ my choice. The Cardinal had arranged it. He’s a friend of my uncle’s.” Marianne surprised herself by her blunt declarations.

“I’m Marianne, and I believe I owe you a thanks for…” A surprised look on his face interrupted her. Then she realized, not only had she introduced herself before the gentleman did, she had also referred to her first name, completely bare of any titles. Like a common prostitute! Couldn’t these luxurious tiles burst open and swallow her? And yet, there was something about this man that made her feel so at ease.

Recovering herself, she curtseyed and without meeting his gaze, “Forgive my manners, I’ve had quite an eventful evening. I’m the Comtesse de Dandurand.”

“Charmed to make your acquaintance, Comtesse,” Porthos bowed, taking her hand and gently kissing it.

He straightened up, “Porthos du Vallon, of the King’s Musketeers, at your service.”

Their eyes locked. Her eyes shimmered in the dull light bleeding from the wide windows above. She was about to seat herself on the ledge of the fountain, when a loud rattle began to echo through the corridor leading to the entrance. Porthos pulled her up again and gently ushered her back behind the bushes.

He stood as he was before, covering the area where she hid with his large body, his eyes fixated on the entrance, his hand on the hilt of his sword.

…

He let out a big sigh of relief when he saw the slender figure of his friend, Athos, preceded by a large tray wheeled on a kitchen cart and filled with all kinds of delicacies.

“I thought you might be hungry,” Athos jovially declared.

“That is kind of you!” Porthos replied. Athos remarked an unusual gleam in the eyes of his friend. He looked around, inspecting the place. A strange shimmer caught his eye from behind the bushes and he smiled to himself.

“Nothing out of the ordinary?” he innocently inquired.

“Quite uneventful,” replied Porthos, coolly. They were both barely suppressing their smiles.

“Very well then, I shall return to Aramis.”

As he was walking away, Porthos called him back, “Thank you for the entertainment, by the way. You might want to check the cellars, I sent him there.” Athos looked back over his shoulders, chuckled and shook his head. He then made his way to the cellars to make sure Rochefort wouldn’t come back this way.

“It’s alright, that was just Athos, another musketeer and one of my closest friends,” announced Porthos, helping Marianne up for the second time. To her mortification, Marianne’s stomach grumbled loudly, prompting a rambunctious laugh from Porthos.

Marianne stared hungrily at the tray. It was a 3-storey trolley laden with a five-course meal: creamy soup, several different appetizers, two main courses, wine and various kinds of cakes, pudding and patisseries for dessert. She hadn’t eaten all day and barely the day before so she can fit into her dress. No wonder she felt faint. At least it wasn’t all nerves.

She watched as Porthos began unloading the first course onto the ledge of the fountain. In any case, she had made enough of a fool of herself and now it’s time to leave this musketeer to his well-deserved meal and head back to the ballroom.

“Well, thank you again, Monsieur Porthos. Forgive my intrusion, I must leave you to it now.”

Sensing her reluctance to leave, Porthos made her a proposition: “You know, in my expert opinion on the subject, food never tastes quite as good unless it’s shared. So, will you stay to ensure that my food tastes the best it possibly could?”

Marianne laughed, “Very well, I’m convinced!”

She ate as if she had never seen food in her life. It was delicious, sumptuous and she found herself making all kinds of approving noises, to Porthos’ great amusement.

“Try this one,” he said, as he lifted a piece of cake to her lips. There was something so sensual in the way he held it and in the way she took it in her mouth from his fingers. By now, having taken their gloves off, Marianne noticed his thick hands, strong yet gentle. She wondered what they must feel like on different places of her body; holding her waist, running through her hair, grabbing her thighs and oh, cupping her breasts! She blushed. 

“I never thought I’d ever meet someone with as much appetite and enjoyment of food as I!” he chuckled.

Swallowing, Marianne said, “It’s a discovery for me too, I daresay. I’ve grown accustomed to the plain food our housekeeper prepares. My uncle is not much for the delights of life.”

“Well that’s sad,” frowned Porthos. He reached back into the tray with a new dessert and held it out to Marianne, who hungrily devoured it. Porthos was beaming at her, like a teacher proud of his student. Marianne, seeing the look in his eyes laughed heartily until she choked on her dessert and Porthos had to pat her on the back and give her some wine to wash it down. She laughed some more, wiping tears from her eyes.

Taking a deep breath to calm herself, she placed her hand on her abdomen. “Argh, this darned corset.” _Again with these ill-mannered declarations!_ She berated herself. She can’t have had that much wine… Porthos smiled to himself. He pretended not to hear to save her some embarrassment. He poured her a glass of water and began clearing out the dishes while she inclined back, resting on her palms, taking in the fresh air. She felt so much more alive. Happy, even - a sense of complete satisfied abandon.

Porthos settled down a few inches away from her. They both looked up at the night sky, admiring the stars in a comfortable silence.

After some time, Porthos began admiring Marianne’s figure from the corner of his eye. Despite the weak light, he was able to discern stains on her hands: ink, charcoal and a few scars from what looked like a small cutting knife.

Feeling self-conscious under his gaze, she massaged her palms onto her lap. “I may be a Comtesse, but I’m not an idle person,” she said, without turning to him, a look of pride shone in her eyes.

His intrigue for this beautiful and unusual noblewoman was mounting. Porthos loved women. He was a generous lover who appreciated everything a woman had to offer. But in all his conquests, a genuine interest in a woman’s personality was never an ingredient. Yet he now found himself particularly drawn to the very spirit of this woman, attuned to every small gesture, as if each could reveal yet another piece of the puzzle he was longing to solve. 

Nevertheless, this was not the right moment to press on for more details. Instead, he contented himself with admiring her. The auburn hair reflecting shades of brassy red and glossy brown; her cheeks rouge from the wine; her lips deliciously red and plump; her bosom, full and beckoning; her waist, curvaceous and seductive. Most remarkably was the rare color of her eyes: a golden bewitching amber.

“I would have asked you to dance at the ball.”

She turned to him, with a faint smile hinting of regret. Yes, she would have loved that.

“I would ask you now, but unfortunately I am still on duty.”

“I’m sure it is all for the best, Monsieur.”

He looked away from her, half in disappointment.

“My dancing would have surely embarrassed you and the King would have dismissed you from his service right then and there.”

He laughed. “Well, lucky for you, I’m a great teacher.”

Marianne jumped up, “Well, if you must insist, Monsieur Porthos.”

Porthos smiled, “Please call me Porthos. We already broke bread together.”

Marianne grinned, “Only if you call me Marianne.” He bowed his head in agreement.

“Very well, Mademoiselle Marianne,” her name on his tongue sounded so delicious.

“You can teach me on one condition,” she said playfully.

He looked at her questioningly. What did she have in mind?

“I specify the kind of dance.”

“You have my word, then.”

A mischievous smile dessinated on Marianne’s face as she started to lift her skirts, revealing white lace stockings covering her legs all the way to her mid-thigh. Embarrassed, and confused, Porthos looked away.

"Well I'm sure it's nothing you haven't seen before, being a solider and all," she teased.

"Not a solider. A musketeer," he replied, "and I uphold the honor of a Comtesse."

She snorted, still fiddling with her dress.

"So, if I weren't noble, you would give yourself the liberty to look at me while I am half undressed?” She challenged.

After much difficulty, he allowed himself to look at her. Before any arousing thoughts crossed his mind, his gaze travelled upwards on her right thigh towards a shiny-looking object. It was a dagger, and it seemed to have gotten intertwined within her stockings

What was the meaning of this? Was Aramis right to be suspect of everyone? Surely, Marianne didn’t look like someone planning an irresponsible act.

“For a dance, I thought we could parry. It _is_ somewhat of a dance, after all, is it not?” And there it was. Porthos had been had.

It was a droll sight: Marianne struggling with the dagger, fumbling and almost tripping over on her dress. She was ravishing. All he could think of now was helping her take off the whole ensemble of her gown.

In her extraction attempt, Marianne completely lost balance. Swiftly, Porthos caught her as she was falling to her side. His hands traveled to her thigh and with a brisk move, he pulled out the dagger. She gasped. The touch of his hand made her shudder. It felt rugged and decisive.

He released her from his arms, and stood facing her, twirling the dagger in his hand, a serious expression on his face.

"First of all, this is blunt and it will not do you any good. Except if you plan on cutting butter.”

Then pointing the dagger at her, he traced an invisible line in the air along her figure, finally pointing it where the it was placed on her thigh.

"Second, that is a terrible place to hide your weapon. By the time you lift your skirts to take it out the assailant would have finished you."

As a demonstration, he lunged at her, grabbed her from behind, and lifted the dagger to her throat. She let out a loud gasp.

His grip was loose. He then moved his hands away and put the dagger in her hand. She could tell he was not in a joking humour anymore.

Before he moved away, he took the opportunity to steal a glance at her bosom from above. _Delicious_!

"Now," he began, " _En garde_.” With that, he drew his sword.

For the next hour, Porthos walked Marianne through some fencing basics. The proper stance, the lunge, a parry, a counterattack. Then, putting weapons aside, he showed her how to make a proper fist, how to use her body weight in an attack and a few self-defence movements.

"It's not always about the sword," he repeated Capitaine de Treville’s words. The only thing he was unable to show her was how to kick, since her dress prevented her from doing so.

Tired and sweaty from this unexpected exercise, Porthos was patting his face with some water from the fountain when he felt a movement behind him. In a split second, he had unsheathed his sword and met Marianne’s dagger in midair. A surprise attack! Marianne was grinning; she was hungry for another round.

“For Heaven’s sake, Marianne!” cried a rapidly approaching voice. The clash of metal on metal was abruptly interrupted.

The intruder, running at full speed, came to a halt. He was hyperventilating. Marianne and Porthos lowered their weapons, stupefied. They were by the entrance this whole time, how did he get in?

“May I introduce Gerard de Villebois?” said Marianne quietly, herself breathless from the exercise. She was displeased at this unfortunate interruption of her evening.

Seeing he was in the company of a gentleman, and a rather superior one in size and girth, Gerard bowed.

“Sir, whatever is the case, I humbly apologize for my mistress. It was I who taught the Comtesse to keep a dagger with her at all times for protection and I am sure she meant no harm and it was a misunderstanding. I will happily fight a duel if it appeases you.”

Porthos was utterly confused.

“Gerard looks out for me. He and I grew up together,” Marianne explained, “He works with my uncle now and he attends events with us as our groomsman.”

What a strange family, Porthos thought.

Porthos approached Gerard. There was a manner in Gerard’s demeanour that dispelled any doubts or jealousy that sprang up in Porthos’ heart the moment Marianne said that he looks out for her. He couldn’t explain what it was, but Gerard seemed… non-threatening. In fact, he seemed like a good friend to have. But wait, jealousy? Porthos was never jealous nor was he ever the possessive kind.

“Your uncle and the Comte de Rochefort are looking for you,” Gerard addressed Marianne.

Putting her dagger away, “Really! I’m surprised my uncle has even noticed.” Glancing at Gerard, she knew that her uncle hadn’t in fact noticed. He only said that to convince her to leave.

“Well, Monsieur Porthos,” Marianne looked up at Porthos, sad to leave, “I thank you for a most wonderful and productive evening.”

That insipid intruder! Porthos wished he would disappear and leave them alone. He wanted to pull Marianne to him, to kiss her, to devour her even. But, like an elegantly-decorated pastry, one must first admire with one’s eyes and only taste one bit at a time to make it last longer.

He bowed to her, “The pleasure was all mine.”

She started following Gerard through the entryway from where she had originally come, when she turned around, “I hope I didn’t shock you too much,” she called out to Porthos.

Porthos chuckled, “Madame, it takes a great deal more than this to shock me.”

She grinned, "Very well, then, I shall have to come up with something more shocking for next time!"

He winked at her and she left. Like a spirit that dissipated into mist, leaving behind a glorious memory.

On the way back, Gerard could not stop reproaching her, but she was lost in a trance, thinking of the events of tonight.

_Porthos…_

She was only able to make out a few words Gerard was saying, “Fraternizing with musketeers”, “the Cardinal”, “angry”, “Rochefort”, “cellar”, “blond musketeer”, “And oh my God, your hair Marianne,” He began removing twigs and tidying it up. Not once did Marianne think of her old beau, Maxim. Certainly, _that_ was over.


	6. Dreams & Nightmares

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bit of background on the original characters of the story:  
> Marianne de Dandurand: Porthos' love interest.  
> Gerard de Villebois: Marianne's friend and valet  
> Maxim de Rameau: Marianne's previous love interest and villain in the story.

The ballroom was now empty, except for the musketeer with the golden hair, who was still dutifully standing at his post, guarding the entryway to the gardens.

Looking around him, Gerard de Villebois noticed that the doors were all locked. There was nothing left to do but to walk over to the handsome young man whom he had been shamelessly staring at all night.

And how could anyone not? With these lustrous voluminous locks that framed his angelic face and descended to his back; the piercing blue eyes as clear and bewitching as the sky on a gorgeous summer day, the fine waist and sculpted body...

The closer he got, the more he noticed the lips of his object of interest. So pink, so full, so beckoning…

The musketeer remained in place, ever so diligent, ever so loyal to duty. But his eyes were watching the advancement of Gerard with anticipation, mixed with curiosity.

Without any introductions, Gerard gently pressed his body onto the musketeer’s, took his face in both his hands and plunged himself in the deepest most passionate kiss he'd ever known. Their tongues swirled together, locked in a dance. The musketeer moaned with pleasure. Gerard's hands began to move from Aramis' neck, to the shoulders, resting on the upper back. His tongue began tracing a line from that delicious mouth to the delicate skin of the musketeer’s neck, while gently biting him. The musketeer moaned louder, and finally broke that ethereal silence with his plea for what Gerard was so desperately desiring: a union of their bodies. With that melodic voice, "Ah, Gerard, Gerard..." the musketeer’s pleas were becoming more insistent, louder and...shriller?

Gerard woke up with a start, drenched in sweat and hyperventilating. He had fallen asleep on the hay stack in the stables. He rubbed his eyes and groaned.

"Geraaaaaard."

So, there was a part of that that wasn't a dream.

It sounded like someone was in danger. As he began to regain full consciousness, he realized that the voice belonged to Marianne. She was in distress. Another call rang out and this time, it was suddenly cut short, muffled. Something was wrong. He jumped up and rushed out, dagger in hand. A bad feeling came over him as he ran towards the source of the noise.

Marianne had gone earlier to meet Maxim and end their relationship.

Gerard knew exactly what kind of person Maxim was and what kind of family he came from: wealthy landlords and terrible tyrants. Maxim's father, the Comte de Rameau regularly ordered the beating of his servants and mercilessly killed those who disobeyed him. But it was always done discretely, underhandedly, never to be traced back to him. It wasn’t just village folk that he menaced. There were rumors that he had a hand in the assassination of several favorites of the King. But these were just rumors.

As for his son, Maxim was simply a bully, devoid of any feeling of compassion. Like his father, he had a very handsome face and attractive features, and could make himself utterly charming to women.

As children, Maxim and his loyal band of friends would gang up on Gerard, dispensing many insults and offensive remarks. Of all other children they had menaced, Gerard was the only one who unfortunately fulfilled their thirst for senseless violence and degrading others. Growing up, his body was weak, lanky and his manners delicate. In short, a perfect target.

He never quite understood Marianne’s attraction to this lunatic. Despite his early warnings to her about Maxim, she was obstinate. There were times when Marianne would come home with bruises, to Gerard's horror. This was usually after a ball when Maxim would have learned or seen Marianne talk or flirt with someone else. Then these symptoms mellowed out as Marianne took to the house more and stopped venturing out as much. On his side, Gerard never had a panache for violence nor took any pleasure in hurting any living creature, not even pests. But if he were to kill anyone in his life, he had reserved that ugly place in his soul for Maxim. Today seemed to present him with this opportunity.

It wasn’t too long before Gerard came upon Marianne and Maxim. Maxim had pinned Marianne forcefully to a tree and was beginning to lift up her skirts, his hand brutally traveling up her legs. Gerard jumped on his neck. They recoiled to the ground and fought with fists and punches. Maxim was twice the size of Gerard but he was a brute without any intelligence; he used the force and strength of his body without control or direction. Gerard, on the other hand, had become lean and tall with the years, as well as flexible and agile, muscular in his legs and core. He was also intelligent in battle, able to predict and thwart his opponent’s next attacks - skills he had been forced to learn by the unfortunate events that marred his young life. Without great difficulty, he had pinned Maxim face up onto the ground and approached his blade to his opponent’s neck. His eyes were consumed by a cold rage and solid hatred. If it weren’t for Marianne’s pleas, he would have killed him right then and there. Taking advantage of the distraction provided by Marianne, Maxim employed his force to flip Gerard over and, taking out his own dagger, he slashed at Gerard’s jaw before running away like the coward that he was.

….

Marianne was tending to the gash on Gerard's face.

"Stay still."

He groaned.

“I don’t understand you Marianne,” he snapped at her. “Tell me once and for all why on earth would you ever be with Maxim.”

Marianne stayed silent.

“I know you’re not a fool and I know you’re not really in love with him, so what is it?” his tone was reproachful, but not unkind.

Unable to stand her mutism, he pushed her hand away from his face and began to rise up when she forced him back by applying her hand on his shoulder.

While still holding the cloth to his face she confessed the truth, “Maxim knows.”

He looked at her questioningly.

“Once at a ball, I think I might have had too much wine and I told him,” she exhaled, “About all of this. About me, what I do, my work, my uncle. Everything.”

She looked down, ashamed.

He shook his head, “Ah, Marianne!” he said with exasperation.

A lump was forming in her throat.

“He gave me his word that he wouldn’t tell anyone if I married him,” she said, as if defending him.

Gerard angrily took the cloth from her and proceeded to finish cleaning up his wound by himself.

“I never believed he would really tell, nor that I would actually end up marrying him. It was like a game, rather,” she said, shrugging her shoulders.

“Maxim is a dangerous man,” he looked up at her with fiery eyes. “You of all people. How could you be so naïve? So irresponsible? You think everything is a game in life, is that it? You have been privileged your whole life, sheltered, given complete freedom and leeway to do everything you want, to defy social norms and you choose to spend your freedom in frivolity.”

He might as well have slapped her in the face. Marianne turned away from him, her countenance rigid, icicles in her stare. 

They were silent for a few minutes.

"Listen, there's something I've never told you." Gerard’s tone softened.

With a defiant look in his eyes, Gerard took off his chemise. Seeing his bare chest, Marianne recoiled in horror. There, in the middle of his chest, was a large scar in the shape of a cross burnt onto his delicate ivory skin. Gerard was branded.

She dropped onto the seat next to him, "...but who.." she stammered. But Marianne already knew the answer.

“Maxim and his friends" he replied, bitterly.

"When?" She whispered, “We were always together, I would have known…”

“About 8 years ago, when your uncle took you to Noisy-le-Sec for a few days.”

He swallowed with difficulty, tears forming in his eyes. All the feelings of shame and guilt simmered to the very edge of his soul.

“I was at the market and they began calling me names, as was their habit,” he sniggered. “I was too fragile… too weak. I couldn’t face them all at once.”

“You were also only 14! Just a boy,” exclaimed Marianne, with horror.

“I don’t remember much of the events that happened before. But there was a lot of kicking. I was on the ground at some point. Blood, on my face. Then they tied me up onto a tree branch.” Hot tears traveled down his cheeks, getting more insistent. He felt like he was suffocating.

Marianne was frozen in terror.

“And then…” He was sobbing profusely now. “One of them had brought a hot metal bar from the smith and…I begged them not…

“Then, they just left me there… like a tossed piece of animal carcass.” Gerard was shaking, sobbing heatedly, his body violently heaving up and down, with a force reminiscent of a sick person regurgitating. God knows he felt sick every time he remembered.

Instinctively and without hesitation, Marianne stood up and enveloped him in her arms, her hands holding his head tightly to her chest, hoping she can somehow absorb some of his pain. How could anyone do that? What kinds of monsters were they? How could she have even thought to be married to someone like Maxim? How shameful! How inconsiderate, bringing this bully into the life of the person she loved most. The one who cared for her and protected her all her life. Who nursed her when she was sick, who held her when she was sad, comforted her when she was angry. And she never noticed. She never bothered to ask. How blind was she!

They stayed like this for a while, Gerard alternating between crying out and quietly heaving.

When they broke apart, Marianne bent down, taking his face in her hands.

“Why have you never told me before?” she spoke tenderly.

It took him some time to answer her, but she waited patiently, tenderly caressing her fingers in his golden brown locks. As if drawing strength from the love between them, Gerard admitted the truth out loud for the first time in his life, “I was ashamed, Marianne.” His tears flowed anew, silent and urgent.

Marianne shook her head in disbelief.

“I…I thought I was a flaw of nature, an anomaly, a condemned and damned spirit. I didn’t understand it, …. I didn’t understand who I was. For a time, I believed everything they called me and said about me.”

She put her forehead to his. “You know you are always loved no matter what. By me most of all.”

He took her hands and kissed them, smiling warmly at her. How he wished he was different sometimes when these rare affectionate moments with Marianne transpired. How he wished he had a desire to kiss her or even to marry her and be a good husband to her. Alas, it seemed that this kind of ordinary life was never meant for him.

Marianne put the back of her hand on her forehead and exhaled deeply, “Maxim is a monster.”

“You should have let me kill him.”

“Oh, I believe he deserves a worse punishment.”

Remembering the assault on Marianne, Gerard noticed blood stains on Marianne’s skirt. He had become blind in his rage and hatred that he had forgotten.

“Did he hurt you?”

“He tried.”

“How did you manage?”

Marianne smiled mischievously. “I might have picked up a few tricks recently.”

“Ah. The musketeer,” A smile tugged at the corner of Gerard’s mouth

Notably, Marianne’s spirits had been high since the ball. Her uncle attributed it to the mere pleasure derived from being included in the privilege of attending such an event, but her thoughts were only full of one person: Porthos. How happy she felt with him. How safe and cherished. Open and adventurous. Just the person she had always wanted to become. In this brief encounter, he seemed to bring out all the best in her, all the good in her. She was Marianne, spirited and uninhibited, playful with a childish innocence, unselfish and tender.

On his side, all Gerard wished for now was for time to turn back and for him to go back to his dream. To that beautiful young musketeer. Those eyes that gleamed with pride yet betrayed so much passion underneath. The thought of what could have happened in the dream had he not woken up was fueling his fantasy.

“I rather like those musketeers,” he declared, his humor improving, “I hope we will see them again soon.”

…

That night, Maxim arrived at his manor, grappling in the darkness of the place. Instinctively, he made his way to the study, where he entered to see a lit fire and the sombre and tall figure of his father standing by the fireplace. His shadow was long and wide, almost covering half the wall behind him.

Knowing the answer to his own question, his father asked dryly, “Did you secure the girl?”

Maxim approached, dizzy, having trouble to keep his balanced. He sneered, “She got away, Father.”

His father turned around to look at him, with a gaze full of sheer and utter disgust.

“How useless you are,” he continued with the same dry tone. Maxim did nothing but frequent brothels, drink too much, eat too much and attack those who were far weaker and inferior to him just for the fun of it. What a disgrace he was. He had been a disappointment to his father ever since he was born. The child of a hateful and scornful woman, that he married for her wealth. Thankfully she was no longer alive.

“You never fail to remind me, thank you,” Maxim grinned at his father, pouring himself a drink from a tray.

With decided steps, the Comte de Rameau walked over to his son, violently slapping him in the face, prompting Maxim to drop his glass. It shattered in a million pieces.

“I should have sent you with the Iron Mask’s men at Belle-Isle. I would have been rid of you by now.”

He turned around and continued, “Alas, I made the ugly decision of keeping you close by so we can complete other plans. But I see now how useless you are. Even the Iron Mask himself didn’t press me to take you. What a disappointment you would have proved to him.”

Maxim was rubbing his face, still throbbing with the force of the hit.

“The Iron Mask is dead, Father,” he said bitterly, as if to hurt his father with this already-known fact.

“How short-sighted you are. The Iron Mask may be dead but he was only one part of a bigger organization that cannot be extinguished so easily.”

Maxim scoffed.

Ignoring him, his father continued, “In any case, I heard at the ball that Cardinal Richelieu has announced a convention for notable inventors from all over France. The Comte de Dandurand and his niece will be there, I am sure of it. I am also sure that he will be showcasing his special “weapon” to the Cardinal. We will strike then.”

“You want to kill the Comte de Dandurand?”

“No, we need him alive for this.”

“Then what about the girl?”

“Her too, but only for a time.”

“So, what do you plan to do to her after you’ve completed your mission?”

His father turned to him sharply, “Don’t tell me you’re sentimental.”

Maxim had a dark smile on his face. “Far from it, Father. I simply would like to be the one orchestrating her pitiful end.”


	7. The Convention Part I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The musketeers meet Marianne and Gerard again.

The two musketeers were marching side by side, discussing their task and going over their checklist one last time, when the blond musketeer nudged her companion and nodded her head in the direction of two individuals who were making their way towards them.

The sounds of heels clicked on the cold stone as the two pairs of friends approached each other. Gerard’s heart skipped a beat upon seeing the musketeer who had been occupying his thoughts and dreams during the past month since the ball.

As for his companion, Marianne seemed to contain her enthusiasm quite well. The glee she felt inside upon seeing Porthos quickly dissipated. Her heart was racing. In fact, she almost dreaded to see the pair coming towards them. What if he had forgotten her? Worse, what if he had found her boring or lacking? What if her own feelings were born out of a silly juvenile fantasy that was undoubtedly comical to men like Porthos? Porthos was a musketeer and musketeers were notorious for their conquests. Unlike all the men she knew in her village and around, Porthos was a real man – a man of the world. He was someone who had seen things, had done things, had experienced so much from life that went beyond what Marianne herself could dream of. And who was _she_? Despite the pride Marianne felt in her little defiance of engaging in activities reserved for men, namely, those of scientific discovery and invention, she was still a simple and sheltered provincial girl. If anything, the incident of Maxim and the following revelation of Gerard had taught her that for all her extensive knowledge of the natural world, her knowledge of people and their behaviour was quite limited.

An electrifying tension settled down like a thick fog onto these four individuals in the first few seconds of their meeting. Her curiosity piqued since their last encounter; Aramis’ gaze instantly went to the stranger who wouldn’t stop staring at her at the ball. Seeing him in broad daylight, she was struck by how attractive he was. His face was of perfect proportions with a chiseled jawline. His skin an ivory beige, enhanced by the sun. His hair was a light brown with significant golden streaks that were accentuated by the light falling on it through the nearby window. There was a hint of a scar on his face that him made look all the more rugged. His eyes, a deep and bewitching green, were like an untold mystery waiting to be discovered. He met her gaze with such intensity that took her breath away.

At last, his lovely musketeer! He faintly smiled at her, making her blush.

Porthos broke the tension with one of his big warm smiles, “Comtesse!” he bowed slightly, taking Marianne’s hand and lightly depositing a kiss. Marianne felt a rush of excitement at this gesture.

She turned to Aramis, with an outstretched hand, “Monsieur Aramis, I don’t believe I thanked you properly for your assistance at the ball.” Marianne smiled coyly. Aramis returned her smile, taking her hand in a gesture of acknowledgment. Noticing Aramis’ gaze quickly shift to Gerard, Marianne said:

“Ah. Allow me to introduce Gerard de Villebois. Aside from helping us at home, he also assists my uncle in his work. He will be assisting my uncle with his exhibition today.”

Gerard bowed his head.

“Are you on duty, messieurs?” Marianne inquired.

“Indeed. We have just completed our reconnaissance of the Cardinal’s residence. The King will be attending the convention and we were sent to ensure that all is in order,” replied Aramis.

Porthos leaned in and whispered, “Especially after what happened the last time the King was at Richelieu’s residence.”

Aramis jabbed Porthos in the ribs, “Porthos!”

“You see, it is here where the Iron Mask and his accomplices substituted the King for Prince Philippe,” Porthos elaborated, ignoring Aramis. He wanted to satisfy the intrigue that dominated Marianne’s features.

Marianne gasped. Encouraged by her reaction, Porthos nodded knowingly and proceeded to recount the events of the Iron Mask’s plot to substitute the King for his twin brother, Prince Philippe, whom the Iron Mask had kidnapped and held captive for many long years in preparation for his plot.

Meanwhile, Gerard and Aramis continued to exchange probing glances, each one intrigued by the other but for differing reasons. 

“…and that was when d’Artagnan arrested the Iron Mask.” Aramis was amused as she watched Marianne’s face transform from its initial reserve to being thoroughly animated as Porthos’ story unfolded. For some unexplained reason, she felt such tenderness for the young woman at that moment.

“Well, what happened next?” Marianne asked passionately, prompting chuckles from the whole group.

“Marianne, perhaps Monsieur Porthos can oblige us to continue this later. We must get to the convention hall,” reminded her Gerard.

“Ah yes. We were just leaving our chambers to get there,” she pointed to where they had come from.

“Ah, then that makes your chambers the last place on our reconnaissance list. If you’ll permit us, Comtesse?” inclined Aramis.

“Certainly. Actually, Gerard is quite the sleuth. He did his own reconnaissance of the place when we were here last for the King’s Ball. He has a talent for uncovering secret doors and chambers with his very nose!” she teased.

Marianne looked at Gerard, encouragingly. It dawned on him what Marianne was trying to do. Very well, he’ll seize this opportunity to be alone with his musketeer.

“I am thoroughly at your service, Monsieur Aramis,” he said, bowing to the blond musketeer.

Was Aramis losing her mind under the spell of this young man’s penetrating gaze, or did this simple courtesy feel like a subtle sultry insinuation? She found herself deeply blushing as an image of their nude bodies moving together violated her thoughts. _Shame on you, Aramis_! What would Athos think? Shaking her head and regaining control over her mind, she was about to decline. And yet… given their failure the last time they were investigating the Cardinal’s residence, this inventor’s assistant might prove useful, after all. She’ll keep an eye on him, just in case.

“Very well,” Aramis agreed. “Porthos, I’ll manage on my own. It won’t do to have a lady walk unescorted to the convention.” She winked at him as she walked away with Gerard by her side.

“Certainly not,” Porthos faked incredulousness. “Madame.” He offered Marianne his arm and she gladly took it.

…

They walked slowly arm in arm. His grip was firm yet gentle. His scent of pine and rosemary, so fresh and masculine, flooded her senses, further augmenting her attraction to him.

Despite her simpler dress today: a frock one third the size of the one she wore at the ball, of a delicate pastel peach color that contrasted with her auburn her, she looked exquisite and seductive. Without the big skirts and the exaggerated corset, Porthos could admire the real form of her body. For her young age, Marianne had a generous bosom, round and full, accentuated by a slender waist and complimented by perfectly proportionate hips.

They talked breezily, occasionally interrupted by laughter. Marianne looked so radiant, so beautiful when she laughed. Her eyes turned into half moons, framed with adorable wrinkles. Her whole face lit up and her cheeks would turn the color of raspberries, especially when she laughed spiritedly. And she had so much spirit.

There was an easy companionship between them. But did she feel anything more for him? Or was it just a newfound friendship for her?

He stopped, disengaging from her gently.

“I have something for you.”

He pulled out a long object, wrapped in black velvet.

“Oh?” she said, surprised.

Porthos began to unwrap the velvet tissue. There was something sensual in the way his fingers delicately handled the tissue. Marianne bit her lip, trying to redirect her mind to the present moment.

As the tissue came fully undone, Marianne gasped; her mouth falling wide open. It was the most elegant and deadly-looking dagger she had ever seen. From its unimpeded shimmer, the metal looked like it was newly hammered. The helm was engraved with golden patterns and the blade itself looked ever so sharp and precise.

“I thought you needed something better,” he began, “I’d feel safe knowing you’re not using a butter knife as a dagger. Think of the suffering you would inflict on the person you would stab with that,” Porthos whistled.

Marianne beamed. Not only did Porthos remember her, but he thought of her to the point of gifting her something reminiscent of their only memory together.

She had the look of a child who had just been given a brand-new toy for Christmas. Porthos laughed at her and shook his head: everything he knew about women and what they liked has changed drastically over the last few years. From Aramis’ whole history, to Constance’s unexpected adventurous and fearless spirit. And now this.

“May I attach it?” he said, gesturing to her leg. She swallowed and nodded.

He placed the dagger in its sheath and produced some leather straps from his habit. He kneeled down on his knees and slowly lifted up her skirts, exposing her legs. Marianne held her skirts so they don’t impede him.

His palm encircled her calf, sending shockwaves through her body. His fingers traced around the leather strap as he fastened it onto her calf, dagger facing outwards to the side. Ever the gentleman, Porthos’ hands remained in their designated vicinity, whereas Marianne’s fantasy took them upwards, making them caress her thighs, and travel further up and up…The area between her thighs was thirsty for his touch, she could feel herself getting warmer. My God, if this was only from touching one small part of her, what would happen to her if he touched her elsewhere? Marianne was now blushing crimson – she fanned her face with her hand. Thankfully, Porthos’ head was obscured by her skirt, so he couldn’t see her face.

Porthos was smiling to himself. He could definitely feel Marianne’s body gently reverberating under his touch, as her breath got shallower. Was she uncomfortable or enjoying this? Or could this just be the reaction of any woman being touched by a man she hardly knew?

“Voila!” he said, looking up at her, patting the dagger on her leg. Marianne bent over to get a better look, lifting her skirts a bit more. Porthos glimpsed the outline of her thighs, curvy and delicious! She placed her hand on the dagger. He covered her hand with his, as he proceeded to show her the proper way to pull on the helm and place it back in. A gentle in-and-out movement that their hands repeated for a minute or so. He was no longer smiling, his breathing becoming heavier. Their gaze locked in such an intensity. Absent-mindedly, she took his hand and pulled him up.

They stood so close to each other, their eyes exchanging a shared desire and passion. All Porthos wanted to do was to pull her by the waist and eliminate the remaining distance between them in a passionate kiss. He could see her chest move up and down with anticipation. He leaned in slightly a bit closer, holding both her hands in his. She didn’t pull away.

Porthos pasued. While Marianne’s desire burned, her body seemed to be frozen in place.

Alas, this wasn’t to be the moment he had hoped for. Having glimpsed her frigid nature a few times, Porthos can now tell that Marianne needed to feel a sense of safety, a certain trust, before completely abandoning her reserve and self-preserving guard, which now seemed to be back in place, standing in the way of their exchange. Certainly, they hadn’t known each other long enough to allow for such a trust, but their dynamic felt ever so natural and familiar. No matter, this didn’t bother him. Porthos smiled at her with tenderness. In this moment, he realized that Marianne was not a conquest. She was like a wild animal that you approach carefully, whom you want to observe and keep by your side but never contain or domesticate. He did not want to scare her, or mar her.

To him, she was too precious. She had an innocence about her that he wanted to protect ever since he saw her in the gardens. He disengaged one hand from hers and, still maintaining her gaze, tucked a stray hair behind her ear.

Marianne turned away, with a disdainful look on her face, eliciting alarm from Porthos.

He was resolved in his caring intentions that he hadn’t considered the possibility of injuring her pride or hurting her feelings. What if she felt rejected? He reproached himself, he should have just kissed her, damn it! To his relief, the source of Marianne’s sudden change in countenance made itself known.

Down the hall towards the entrance, some voices carried through towards them. Two he recognized as the Cardinal and Rochefort.

She looked like a child whose dessert was prematurely taken away from him, “I had completely forgotten that the Comte de Rochefort is to accompany me again to the convention.” She squeezed on his hand. Porthos looked at her warmly. _Rochefort, again_. From what he heard from Aramis, he had actually behaved himself when Marianne had returned to the ball. He liked to think he had something to do with that.

“If Rochefort attempts anything…,” murmured Porthos menacingly. Marianne looked up at him and smiled. Although he didn’t kiss her, she was sure that Porthos cared for her. But did he only care as a friend? Or perhaps he was doing the gentlemanly thing and she was presumptuous?

“In any case, we are stationed at the convention hall this time since the King will arrive soon.”

Marianne’s features brightened at the thought of having him around throughout the event.

He offered her his arm again, “Now, allow me to escort you to your uncle.”

As they got closer, she glanced at him and said, “You know, I am in such a great mood I rather think I shall be nice to the Comte this time.” Porthos chuckled.


	8. The Convention Part II (Suspicions)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the anime, there were several cool and interesting inventions that played a major role in the plot. There was a submarine, modeled after Da Vinci's plans, there were a few gliders that enabled Milady to fly off rooftops, an there was an interesting-looking sword that Manson used and the big machine that was used to substitute the bed where the King slept in for another bed where Prince Philippe was sleeping in. Not to mention all the secret rooms and trapdoors. Notably, the secret chamber the Iron Mask used to gain access to the Cardinal's residence and make the substitution. It was also there where the King's bed descended and the King was kidnapped.   
> Just as a reminder that in the anime, Cardinal Richelieu contracted Mason the Merchant (an accomplice of the Iron Mask) to renovate his residence for him to welcome the King for a ball. It was during these renovations that Manson and the Iron Mask built these secret rooms and installed this machinery.  
> These inventions inspired a great deal of this story. It all started by the simple question of: who made those inventions and why? What relationship did they have to the Cardinal or to the Iron Mask's people and Milady?   
> By expanding on those questions, I came up with the Comte de Dandurand as the inventor responsible for all the inventions in the anime and of course, his niece who secretly helps him.  
> In the BBC's the Musketeers S2E3 we meet an inventor whose daughter, Samara, is an intellectual young girl who forms a bond with Porthos. Their bond in the show was platonic and brotherly but I did wonder what would happen if they had fallen in love.  
> And so, this inspired the character of Marianne, the inventor's niece, who becomes Porthos' love interest. Her personality is heavily inspired by another fictional character from French literature, Claudine (by the author Colette).  
> I also thought it would be interesting to pair Porthos up with someone who is intelligent and defied the gender norms of the 17th century.   
> I hope I remained as historically faithful as possible to the inventions and discoveries that were present during that period of time. Please feel free to point out any discrepancies.

Despite his initial recoil at the sight of his charge being escorted by none other than the musketeer Porthos, Rochefort’s spirits soon returned when Marianne greeted him with a genuine warmth. His spirits were further lifted upon seeing the envious look of the men in the convention hall as they laid eyes on the young woman he was escorting. Indeed, Marianne looked ravishing and delicious, Rochefort had remarked to himself. None of that haughty attitude she had given him the last time he saw her. Even the conversation between them flowed easily and he found in Marianne an intelligent companion. He was pleasantly surprised and intrigued.

While the convention hall was packed, the atmosphere was nowhere near as intimidating and stifling as what Marianne had experienced at the ball. Here, Marianne recognized some people as friends of her uncle’s. The lively scientific and philosophical discussions emanating from groups here and there, as well as the display of the most recent and exciting inventions, put Marianne right in her element.

As they walked through the convention, Marianne was marveling at everything and stopping to read every descriptive plaque while carefully examine the work. Rochefort was becoming restless and annoyed: it was like escorting one of his mistresses to the jeweller’s.

“Mademoiselle Marianne,” a familiar raspy voice startled Marianne. Her eyes widened with horror as she turned around to face the stranger. Rochefort felt her grip on his arm tighten, her nails digging into his skin. He flinched slightly.

“May I introduce the Comte de Rameau?” She swallowed with difficulty, “He comes from a neighbouring estate to ours,” Marianne said in a monotonous tone. In the same tone, Marianne introduced Rochefort.

Rochefort stiffened. So, this was the famous Comte de Rameau. Rochefort had conducted investigations into this person after the events of the Iron Mask. Several accounts described Rameau as being an accomplice of the Iron Mask in private and a supporter of Manson the Merchant in public. In other words, he was an enemy to the Cardinal and hence, to Rochefort himself. In fact, Rochefort had seen his name on some documents at Manson’s house after they raided it but could not find enough evidence to incriminate him. But what was he doing here and by whose invitation?

Glancing suggestively at their linked arms, he said coolly, “You move quick, I see.”

Rochefort could feel Marianne’s heart pounding and reverberating through her being. This man seemed to illicit a hateful reaction. Rochefort held Marianne up more forcefully, as if to keep her upright and reassure her.

Rameau gave Marianne a most disdainful look before addressing Rochefort, “You see, the Mademoiselle on your arm was engaged to my son not too long ago.”

What manners! Even Rochefort himself was shocked.

"We were never engaged!” Marianne shot at him, “I could never engage myself to someone like your son. He’s nothing but a brute.”

"How dare you?" he hissed at Marianne. Then, turning to Rochefort, “Are you in the habit of letting your women speak out of place, Sir?”

To Rameau’s surprise, Rochefort let out a loud laugh.

"I find it rather charming, in fact." And with a more serious face, "and it's _Comtesse_ to you, Sir. Now, should you feel the need to address the _Comtesse_ at any point during this event or otherwise, you may only do so with my strict permission and within my presence. Otherwise," Rochefort gestured to his sword.

Rameau sneered, "Are you threatening me, Rochefort?"

"Merely reminding you of your place."

Angrily, Rameau stormed off. _So, Paul-Francois de Dandurand has managed to secure his niece by attaching her to this insipid bastard who was the Cardinal's pet. Very well, then._

Before Rochefort could ask or think anything, the hall quieted down with the announcement of the King’s arrival by the trumpeters.

…

The King was flanked by his twin brother, Prince Phillippe, Cardinal Richelieu, Captain of the Musketeers, Monsieur de Treville, and his top three musketeers. Their procession first landed on the exhibition of Marianne’s uncle. By that time, Gerard had also reappeared at her uncle’s side, without Marianne’s notice.

“You remember the Comte de Dandurand and his niece, the Comtesse Marianne de Dandurand from the ball, Your Majesty,” the Cardinal whispered to the King.

“Indeed, a close friend of yours, Cardinal.” Then, addressing the Comte, “I am surprised that your niece honors us with her presence at such an event. I rather think it is not as exciting as a ball.”

The Comte bowed, his face reddening, “Forgive the intrusion, Your Majesty, my niece has no other family and it would not do to leave such a young woman on her own in the country.”

“Indeed,” The King applauded the Comte’s sensibility.

The Comte began his presentation describing and explaining the several items he had on display. Both the King and Prince were impressed, pausing here and there to pose questions and give their compliments.

“We found something you must see,” Athos had appeared at Rochefort’s side and whispered to him. Rochefort glanced at Marianne and back at Athos. Athos understood.

“Aramis, Porthos.” He called to his comrades. Rochefort excused himself away, leaving her in the care of the two musketeers. For once, he didn’t mind, pleased to be taken away to a task that was more natural and exciting to him than being in this boring place.

Before the procession detached from the Comte de Dandurand’s exhibition, two things caught Aramis’ attention: a model of a glider very similar to what she had seen Milady use, and an all-too familiar sketch of a submarine.

The musketeers and Marianne stood a few paces away from the King’s party as it went around the exhibitions. They came upon a crowd at whose center stood an inventor explaining a new model to a group of his peers. Marianne put out her fan and whispered to her companions, “He’s wrong. The laws of physics recently described by Monsieur Galileo Galilei do not permit an object of the size he is describing to drift from far its origin. His hypothesis is thus nullified. I bet you that man by the post there will be the one presenting this argument.”

Surely enough, not long after Marianne said that, the man she had pointed to ventured an argument that exactly matched what Marianne had said. She grinned triumphantly to herself. The two men subsequently engaged in a public debate. Meanwhile, Marianne kept turning to her companions, accurately giving them her predictions of the next argument down to the last equation.

Porthos and Aramis were both baffled and amused. As they continued to walk around, Marianne would explain to them discretely how certain instruments and machines functioned and the natural laws on which they were built. This included the refractory telescope, the steam turbine, a submarine, star charts and new discoveries of planets.

As she spoke, she was animated in the same way Porthos was when he talked about food, Aramis remarked.

“Comtesse de Dandurand!” an elderly gentleman standing next to his exhibition called out to Marianne. It was a close friend of her uncle’s whom she had known from childhood. She went over to greet him. Aramis turned to Porthos, “Did you notice that, as the Comte’s assistance, Gerard doesn’t seem to say much? As if he doesn’t know as much as an assistant should?”

They both turned in the direction of the Comte de Dandurand’s exhibition. Gerard was standing by the Comte, his face ever so serious, his back straight. He had the makings of a solider, Aramis thought. He seemed lost in thought, his gaze fixated on some obscure point on the wall.

“What do you mean to say?” Porthos squinted at Aramis. But he already knew. She inclined her head suggestively towards Marianne, who was deeply engaged in conversation with the elderly man.

“So?” Porthos said, defiantly. “Marianne has a secret. A double identity, perhaps. Who doesn’t? And _you’re_ one to judge!” he whispered.

She smiled at him.

“And stop looking at Gerard like that!”

“Like what?” she was taken aback.

“Like you’re devouring him with your eyes.”

Aramis was indignant. Yes, Gerard was physically attractive, but he was also intriguing and mysterious beyond the physical sense. She couldn’t help but be drawn to him.There was a look of sadness and melancholy in his eyes that she recognized all too well. She couldn’t help but feel that he was hiding a terrible secret. His fixation on her also piqued her. Did he know the truth about her?

“I’m merely observing.” She responded through clenched teeth. “And anyway, you’ve been too wrapped up with your new interests to notice that her uncle had the same instruments Richelieu and Milady had used once upon a time. I saw the glider and the submarine plans. Remember those?”

“Unfortunately, yes. But it doesn’t mean anything. He’s a close friend of the Cardinal so it’s natural that he would contract him. It wasn’t his fault the submarine was stolen by the Iron Mask in the end.”

“Yes, but…”

She grabbed him by the arm so as to move him out of earshot, “Gerard seemed to know a lot about the Cardinal’s residence.”

“Aramis,” Porthos groaned, “They stayed at the Cardinal’s residence during the ball and he seems to really care about Marianne and her uncle so he went and did what any good and loyal servant would do: ensure their safety.” While Aramis always admired Porthos’ unrivaled ability to see the best in people, it sometimes annoyed her.

She retaliated, “I can’t imagine that they had that much time for him to discover all of that. He seemed too familiar with the secret passageways.” She paused and lowered her voice more, “We even came upon the secret chamber the Iron Mask used, the one we’ve been trying to find for months.”

 _So that’s where Athos had taken Rochefort. And probably d’Artagnan was there too._ Porthos nodded to himself.

“I mean, can we trust them?” Aramis said, imploringly. Yes, Marianne was lovely and smart and lively. Yes, she wanted Porthos to be happy, but what did they really know about her? And what was Gerard hiding?

Porthos glanced in the direction of Marianne. His heart skipped a beat to see her laugh, ever so carelessly, so gleefully. But Aramis was right, they needed to be on their guard.

Seeing Porthos grimace, Aramis wanted to lighten the mood, “Did you give her the present?”

At the memory he shared with Marianne, Porthos smiled warmly and nodded.

“Did she like it?”

He grinned.

…

Gerard had been looking forward to alone time with Aramis. That glorious soldier with the unmistakable scent of vanilla and lilac. But their journey through the Cardinal’s residence took a rather grave and unexpected turn: the discovery of the Iron Mask’s secret chamber. It was all by accident. Having read many books on the subject and designed a few with the Comte de Dandurand, Gerard knew which fixtures to look for in a given room that could lead to a secret passageway.

He didn’t think much of what he was doing, simply going by the few passageways he had discovered last time and then relying on instinct. He only cared to impress the musketeer.

But then, in the bedroom that had once been designated for the King, he glanced around until his eyes rested on a tile on the wall next to the bed. To the untrained eye, it looked unremarkable, but to someone of his experience, it was certainly a fake. He removed it and unravelled a couple of metal pipes which he immediately recognized as signalling pipes. With his knowledge on which floors can house secret chambers, he was able to trace the pipes all the way down to the basement, where he found the fixture he was looking for and pressed it to uncover the chamber.

The ease with which he solved this difficult puzzle troubled him. Yes, he was good and trained, but not _that_ good. This oddly felt like something he had done before. As if he had seen the outlines of this house before, as if… when they entered the chamber, Gerard wasn’t shocked by what he saw, rather by the realization that the map of the Cardinal’s residence was internalized in his head. He had spent many nights poring over it without knowing to which owner it belongs.

Upon seeing that machine that was used to exchange the beds and put Prince Philippe in place of King Louis, all of his doubts were confirmed. He looked pale and his palms were beginning to sweat. Not even the warm touch of Aramis on his shoulder consoled him.

It had to do with that woman who came to the Comte a few years ago. The woman with the jade-green eyes. The Comte seemed completely taken and mesmerized by her. Gerard had an uneasy feeling about it at the time, but she provided them with a generous sum so the Comte agreed to the project. He told Gerard and Marianne that it was for a lady who was having an affair and she wanted to hide it from her husband. Is that what the lady himself had told him? Did the Comte know what he had created and to whom he had created it? But surely, being a close friend of the Cardinal, the Comte would recognize the floor plan of the Cardinal’s house when the lady had given it to him? No, in fact, he must have recognized it because he had a plan from when he built a few things for the Cardinal many years ago. This one was of the renovated residence.

Too many questions ran in Gerard’s his mind. One thing he was sure about was that this place and this event wreaked with something sinister. Maybe even the musketeers can’t be trusted. He needed to tell Marianne. They needed to be on their guard.


	9. Fantasies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aramis begins to fantasize...

Aramis found herself in the Iron Mask’s secret chamber, down in the cellars of the Cardinal’s residence. She was sent to inspect it and had brought Gerard along to examine the machinery. He was dressed in a loose chemise that was half open, revealing his bare chest. She watched him with a mesmerised fixation as he nimbly moved from one side of the equipment to the other, bending down or stretching up to inspect something. Then with such agility, he jumped off the platform and landed quietly on the floor.

He walked towards her decidedly, wiping his hands on his chemise, which exposed a part of his lower abdomen. His chest was perfectly sculpted to the point that his lower abdominal muscles looked like they were continuing downwards, to a delicious place that was hidden under his culotte.

Aramis swallowed with difficulty as he finally approached her. “I think we can easily trace this back to whoever built it,” he said in that soft tone of his. She tried to reply, to say something useful but hard as she tried, nothing would come out. Instead, she couldn’t look anywhere else but at his beautiful face. She was completely lost in his eyes. He gave her a tender smile and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. She stiffened.

“You’re beautiful,” he exhaled, getting closer, tracing his thumb on her cheeks and then on her lips. “Such burdens you carry with you,” he said, as if he could look into her very soul.

He then took her hands in his and kissed them sensually, the warmth of his lips lingering on her skin, sending electricity all throughout her body. He brought her hands to closer inspection, “Such delicacy. How many tribulations you must have faced for this immense sacrifice you’ve done for the one you loved.” His voice was so ethereal, so surreal, as if it belonged to someone else.

He walked backwards towards the platform, drawing her along. She did not protest or resist. He sat down on the edge of the platform, still holding on to her hands. “What do you say we take off the masks now? I think you’ll find you and I have a lot in common.”

His gaze was burning with intensity. His hands began detaching her habit, which quickly fell to the floor. Aramis was still frozen in place. What was she doing? Why couldn’t she stop this or move? What about Athos? How can she betray him like this? What would happen if –

“Ahh,” she moaned. How did her culottes come off so fast? She looked down at herself and found that she was completely nude all of a sudden. What kind of delicious magic was this? Gerard’s fingers had traveled up her thighs and were now gently caressing her sex. She was still standing up, facing him. She looked down at him; he was equally nude. Everything about his body was pure perfection. From his chiseled face, to his lean taut legs, to what was in between them! Just the sight of it excited her more.

His fingers continued to move around her pleasure points with such dexterity. She moaned and grabbed his shoulders tightly. How shameful! How can she let him do this to her? She barely knew him! And Athos! Oh, Athos! But what can she do now? She couldn’t run, couldn’t move.

Her moans became louder, more insistent. Then, to her disappointment, he stopped. He stood up facing her, passion burning in his eyes, as his lips locked with hers with such potency that she had never known except with Athos.

But Gerard’s lips were different. He was gentle and rogue at the same time, he knew exactly where to touch her, exactly what she liked and where she liked it. He knew where to take his tongue inside her mouth, starting from the corner of her mouth, then licking her lips and finishing with a gentle bite on her lower lip before letting go and starting all over again.

His tongue traced a warm line on her neck, down to her breasts, where he swirled his tongue around before zeroing in on the nipple and gently biting it. She groaned with such pleasure! Her body was under his spell; he controlled everything. A fire burned in between her legs and her knees were starting to give way - she could no longer hold herself up. He put his arm around her waist to stabilize her as he sat back on the platform and placed her on his lap facing him, her legs on either side of him. As he continued to kiss her breasts, his hand slid down between her legs again. She moaned louder. He felt her body reverberate; she was close, he knew, very close, but he didn’t want her to come just yet. And then, swiftly he replaced his hand with his own sex, which sent a shockwave of a double orgasm as it filled her up. She almost screamed with pleasure.

He sunk his teeth into her neck and then placed his head on her shoulder, as her golden locks engulfed him. He thrusted her so insistently, “Ahh, Aramis! Aramis...” he groaned.

His groans were getting louder and louder, he was close, she could tell.

“ARAMIS!”

Suddenly, a very sharp pain radiated from her stomach, causing a lump of phlegm to come up in her chest as she woke up with a choking cough. She was hyperventilating, her eyes wide with shock and disbelief. The blurriness she experienced began to subside when she saw no one other than her comrade Porthos standing right next to her. There was no one else in the room.

She grabbed her abdomen with her arm and hurled at him, “What the hell was that?”

“Well, I had to do _something_ ,” Porthos retorted. He was looking down at her with an expression of curiosity and disgust, his hands on his hips.

Slowly and groaning, she got up to her feet and looked around. They were in the servants’ courtyard, waiting to take their night shift and she had decided to take a nap beforehand.

She shot daggers at Porthos and punched him in the stomach. Her punches rarely affected the giant and this one was particularly weak. “There are other ways to wake people up, Porthos!” she yelled at him, “You don’t have to be a brute.”

Now she was just insulting him. He towered over her and with an irate voice, “You weren’t waking up, Sleeping Beauty.”

They stared at each other angrily.

“Moreover, I didn’t feel it was my place to be the one entertaining the obscene noises you were making!” he shot at her.

Aramis’ eyes widened; her cheeks turned a very dark shade of red. Oh no. Her dream had spilled over to reality and Porthos was there to receive it. She was mortified. She put her hand to her face, as if to hide it. Not to mention that someone could have heard her and discovered her identity. Could the ground open and swallow her?

Seeing her embarrassment, Porthos backed away and chuckled, “You’re worse than any of Madame Chabot’s girls. My respect to Athos,” he winked at her.

She rolled her eyes. Normally, she would have been beyond insulted to be compared to a prostitute, but she felt she deserved it. What business did she have fantasizing about someone other than Athos? Besides, if the noises she was making were anything close to what was in the dream and Porthos had heard her, then he was right. She couldn’t argue with that.

“Is it time for our shift?” she said, trying to change the subject.

“It is,” Porthos said, heading out the door, adjusting his sword.

She smoothed out her clothes, tidied her hair and began walking with her comrade.

He stopped. “I’m stationed around the guest chamber grounds and you’ll be taking the servants’ ground, remember? It’s that way” he said, pointing to the other direction, his eyebrows furrowed.

“Right, of course. See you in the morning?”

Porthos nodded slowly.

“It _was_ Athos, wasn’t it?” he called back to her.

She turned around, “Hmm?”

“The dream?” Porthos pursued.

“Oh, of course it was,” she said with a wide smile and left before he could say anything else.

Porthos sighed and shook his head. He knew Athos was good with women but not _that_ good. Anyway, Aramis was a grown woman who was just discovering herself after long years of celibacy and being disguised as a man. What was wrong with a little crush? It was harmless.

He smiled to himself, put on his hat and walked to his post. He had his own fantasies to think about anyway. Even though he won’t see Marianne tonight, his patrol will take him just outside her window. The thought of her sleeping peacefully in bed gave filled him with warmth. The thought of her in bed altogether made him feel excited. Better yet, the thought of him in bed _with_ her, while he made love to her and made her moan to the degree just demonstrated by Aramis? That was heavenly! Marianne had such a tantalizing body and he longed to discover it, to know it, to touch her and kiss her everywhere, to become one with her. 

But then his thoughts took a turn they had never taken before: how nice would it be to come home to Marianne, have a lavish dinner with lively conversation, hear her laughter as he told his stories and then spend the night making love to her until they were both exhausted and she fell asleep in his arms? There, he would keep her safe, loved, protected…

_… Loved?_

No, Porthos doesn’t “ _fall in love_ ”. That was something Athos and Aramis did and look where it took them in their lives. No, Porthos lived for the moment, for the pleasures of life. It was only that he took pride in assuming the role of Marianne’s protector, her guardian.

And yet…

Ever since he met that young woman, he wasn’t able to stop thinking about her, to think of ways to impress her, to come up with excuses to be around her. Sometimes, he just wanted to be in her company, to enjoy the pleasures of life _with_ her. Is that what Athos and Aramis had together?

He shook his head and attempted to think of something else.

…

The fresh air helped clear Aramis’ stormy mind, bringing some calm to her. What was wrong with her? After Francois, she never thought she could love again. For years, she felt alone, hiding her femininity, unable to get close to anyone. She thought her fate was sealed, that it was a done deal. But then… Athos. How she loved Athos! So why was this happening? How could she be fantasizing and dreaming of someone else? There was something about Gerard that destabilized her. As if he knew something about her, as if he understood her deepest darkest secrets.

Aramis suddenly froze. The hairs on her arms perked up. She could feel someone hiding in the vicinity, watching her. Her hand automatically moved to her sword. She took a few steps forward before turning around abruptly at the sound of a rustle.

But there was no one there. She exhaled: it was only the leaves of a tree.

She turned back to continue on her path when she came face to face with a hooded stranger who seemed to have materialized out of nowhere. She let out a cry and almost fell back, losing her balance. Reflexively, she elbowed him and pulled out her sword. The two engaged in combat. Not long after, Aramis realized that the stranger was unarmed. But why was he attacking an armed soldier without a weapon? She put her sword away.

He succeeded in either blocking or avoiding all of her blows and kicks. In the dark, she could hear him chuckle every time he managed to do so, as if it amused him. He was quick and nimble and he fought like he was doing a waltz. He kept disappearing and she didn’t know where to look, so the force of her punches was wasted on blocks of empty space that the stranger had occupied only seconds ago. He anticipated her movements with such rapidity. Aramis had never faced an adversary who was as skilled in the art of suppleness and agility as this stranger. Yet something about him felt familiar.

Enough play, she was on duty and this was clearly an intruder. If she was unable to catch him so far, she will have to up her game. She drew her sword and began slashing at him, only to be met with thin air. Suddenly, she felt a jab on the inside of her wrist that was holding the sword. A nerve was pinched and an electric pain shot up through her arm, weakening her grip. She cried out as the dark figure kicked her arm, causing her to drop her sword. But it seemed that he wasn’t satisfied with disarming her. She quickly found herself imprisoned within a strong pair of arms, holding her from under her own arms, securing her like a tight belt and keeping her arms to the side, unable to move. She was about to kick but the stranger had pinned her legs forcefully with his, entangling their legs together, completely paralyzing her. She was trapped, helpless.

His breath was so close to her neck. “Relax, I don’t want to hurt to you,” the stranger whispered. There was something intoxicating about his voice. Aramis could feel him inhale the scent of her hair. The warmth and grip of his body felt dangerously arousing. She knew exactly who it was now.

He let her go and she barely moved, merely bringing her arms and legs back to her body and under her control.

She looked at him, wide-eyed, still mute.

“I’m sorry, I thought you were a stranger but then when I saw it was you, I just couldn’t resist,” he had a sheepish smile on his face that was hard to resist.

She straightened up and picked up her sword, putting it back in it sheath.

Coolly she said to him, “You shouldn’t be here.”

Gerard was abashed. “I… I couldn’t sleep. I thought some fresh air would do me good.”

He put his hands in his pockets. He looked troubled. Now was her chance to ask him all her questions, to interrogate him. But all she could do was stare at his body, and visions from her dream flooded back to the front of her memory. _No! Think of Athos! Think of your duty!_

She didn’t react in time. Disappointed by her lack of reaction, Gerard turned around to leave, “I had better get back, then. Thank you for the dance.” He smiled and turned away.

“Wait, Gerard,” she said in a low but determined voice.

He turned back to her, still smiling, his gaze intense as always. The moon came out from behind the clouds and she could see his face.

“I wanted to ask you about...” she was rudely interrupted when Gerard suddenly pushed her behind some bushes before jumping on top of her. _What the-!_ He pinned her down, resting his finger gently on her lips, “Shh! Someone’s coming.”

Sure enough, two strangers came out from the corner and stood close to the bushes.

“It’s safe here, no one can hear us. The Red Guard are not very thorough in their responsibility,” said one of the two voices. _Of course they weren’t_ , thought Aramis, _that’s why_ I’m _here instead_. She almost reflexively got up when Gerard pushed her down, a warning look on his face, “Wait,” he whispered.

The other man sniggered.

“All is set, then?” said a raspy voice. _The Comte de Rameau! What was he doing here_ , Gerard thought?

“It is, everything will be carried out on the last day of the convention. Did you speak with the Comte de Dandurand?”

“Soon,” replied Rameau.

“Very well. I’ll wait for your signal, then.”

“Excellent. Oh and, Marcheaux? I want this to be quick and quiet, understood? Like old times. None of the theatrics from the last year or so.”

“Understood.”

The two men separated, each walking in the opposite direction.

Gerard and Aramis waited a few minutes before Gerard poked his head up, his lower body pressing on Aramis’. She could feel his bulge. He can’t possibly be aroused! For all _he_ knew, she was a man. It must just be the muscular contractions she felt, after all, he was at an awkward angle. She bit her lip and closed her eyes, willing herself not to have anymore indecent thoughts.

“They’re gone,” he said, sitting up on her. He lingered a bit before he stood up and extended a hand to her. She hesitated but then took it, they stood close together, their breath mingling. How he wanted to kiss those lips, to put Aramis back on the ground and take him right then and there. If it wasn’t for what they just witnessed, Gerard would not have hesitated. Unfortunately, his worries clouded his excitement at this moment.

Aramis walked around, inspecting the grounds, Gerard trailing behind her.

“One of the voices was familiar to me,” he told her. “It was the Comte de Rameau without any doubt. I can recognize his malevolent voice anywhere.” A tone of concern was apparent in Gerard’s voice. What did Rameau want from his master?

“Do you know him?”

Gerard relayed all he knew about Rameau, his suspected crimes, the rumors of his support of Manson. Her eyes widened at the mention of Manson. Not this devil again! She thought that chapter was closed. 

What not many people knew was that there was talk in some of the darkest corners of the country that Rameau had been an accomplice to the Iron Mask. Gerard, being a quiet observer at all times, had accidentally come across some of that talk. Hesitantly, he also relayed this information to Aramis.

“I have a bad feeling about all this,” he finally uttered, concluding his account.

Aramis approached him, “You seem to know a lot about the Iron Mask…”

“I know what you’re thinking. If this is about the chamber, I can assure you it was as much a surprise to me. But…”

Aramis did not look convinced.

“I might be able to find out more. But it will involve some people who I love and I can’t put them in harm’s way. Let me help you, but please give me time to do it discretely.” His tone seemed desperate.

“You mean the Comte and his niece?”

Gerard nodded. Aramis was highly hesitant but she also admired and understood Gerard’s loyalty. Despite that he was born into the serving class, he had a defiant nobility about him. There was something in his manners and appearance that was saintly.

With such a man by her side at all times, Aramis wondered how Marianne hadn’t fallen in love with him. Or had she? There seemed to be nothing in their dynamic but platonic affection. However, she needed to know for certain. _For Porthos. Yes, for Porthos_ , she repeated to herself.

“One last question and this time, I demand the uninhibited truth.” She held his gaze commandingly. “Are you and Marianne lovers?”

The question had the same affect on Gerard as if the musketeer would have taken him passionately in his arms. He was electrified. So, his musketeer was jealous!

Gerard smiled, “There has never been anything between us nor will there ever be. Marianne is a sister to me and I love her. We grew up together and it is my duty to keep her from harm’s way, as any brother would.”

Aramis met his smile with one of hers, satisfied with his answer.

“Then you will report to me with what you will find about Rameau and his plans,” she resumed her commanding tone, to the great arousal of Gerard.

He extended his hand to seal their alliance. She took it and he held on to it.

Gerard’s smile faded and a dark cloud took its place. “You have my word and my full dedication. But whatever the outcome of this investigation, I don’t want Marianne involved.”

Aramis nodded. She had a bad feeling about this, too. Something told her that the story of the Iron Mask wasn’t over. But can she fully trust Gerard? And what was the connection to Marianne’s uncle? Now, her mission was to find out the truth and try to extricate Marianne out of all of this, for the sake of the girl and for Porthos himself.


	10. Monsieur Descartes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marianne has to find a way to attend a lecture given by Rene Descartes.  
> Both Marianne and Porthos discover something new about each other.

_Disclaimer: The scenes in this chapter involving Rene Descartes, prominent mathematician and philosopher in the 17 th century, are but a figment of my own imagination. They are not based on real events whatsoever. _

“Off to see Aramis again?” Marianne had snuck into Gerard’s room in the servants’ quarters. He was fumbling about, gathering his tools.

“I am,” he said, nonchalantly, attempting to mask his excitement.

“You’ve been sneaking off to see him for the last couple of days, haven’t you?” Marianne said coyly.

Gerard smiled to himself, “We’re working on something and I’m helping him out.”

Gerard had decided not to tell Marianne anything about the Iron Mask’s chamber, the machine or what he overheard from the Comte de Rameau. Instead, he decided to take things into his own hands: he will help Aramis and the musketeers with uncovering anymore secret passageways, disassemble the machine and trace it back to whoever made it. In reality, he would position himself appropriately so that he would be the first person to uncover the Dandurand seal itched on the very core of the machinery. He would then be able to destroy it before anyone else finds it and pretend that there was nothing to be found, thereby putting an end to any further inquiry and extricating Marianne and her uncle from any connection to the machine and, by extension, the Iron Mask.

Did he feel guilty about lying to Aramis? Maybe. But he had a plan for that, too: he will tell Aramis the truth after he had destroyed the proof. At least that would ensure that he kept his word in carrying out the investigation to the full, as he promised the musketeer. No one said anything about _retaining_ the proof. Besides, he was sure he could count on Aramis’ understanding of his loyalty to the Dandurands.

“Well, today is Monsieur Descartes’s lecture.”

“Ah, that’s today, isn’t it?” Gerard looked up at her with a dumb expression, scratching his head.

“It is, and you know how important it is! You must go and take notes for me. They won’t allow a woman in the lecture hall,” Marianne whined.

“I can’t Marianne, I gave Aramis my word,” Gerard’s tone was imploring.

“What about me? You gave me your word!”

“Well, technically, I never promised you,” he replied, with a coy smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He continued about filling his sack with some provisions and tools.

“Gerard! Well, what am I supposed to do?”

“Why not ask Porthos?” he winked at her.

“I can’t, the King is attending the lecture and Porthos is on duty.”

“Well, you’re smart, I’m sure you’ll find a way,” he said, somewhat exasperated by this conversation. It was always a struggle when Marianne didn’t get what she wanted, obstinate and spoiled as she was.

Marianne groaned. She looked around the room and made her way towards the little writing desk in the room, where Gerard had kept a stack of notebooks. “Fine, then I’ll take one of your notebooks.”

She picked a notebook sitting in the middle of the stack and opened it to check for empty pages. Her eyes widened as they were met with the face of Aramis staring at her right from the page. She flipped through the pages slowly at first, examining the artwork: there was the beautiful musketeer, featured in sensual poses, flattering profiles and tasteful nudes - no doubt out of Gerard’s imagination. Marianne grinned with mischief.

However, the more she stared at the drawings, the more she realized that Aramis resembled more a woman than a man. It was something in the face, in the eyes…she couldn’t quite place it. Was it even possible? Before her thoughts could go any further, Gerard, who had glanced at Marianne, slightly surprised by her silence, had leapt across the room and abruptly snatched the notebook from between her hands.

“Not that one,” he exclaimed, as he took the notebook away and gestured to the remaining available ones.

“You’re obsessed!” she joked.

He rolled his eyes at her. He wasn’t about to be dragged into a childish argument. Surprisingly, she didn’t pursue it either.

Then in a hushed tone she said, “Gerard, don’t you think Aramis looks more like a… woman?”

“I know it’s natural to think that of men like me and Aramis.”

“Yes, but…”

There was an indignant and warning look in Gerard’s eyes. She was treading in a sensitive territory and it would be best to stop.

“Oh well, you’ll know best,” she mumbled. “Remember, don’t get too carried away,” she winked at him. These were usually Gerard’s famous last-words to Marianne before she headed off to a ball. He understood the allusion and smiled at her. He planted a kiss on her head and hurriedly left the room.

* * *

Disappointed by Gerard’s untimely and unexpected desertion, Marianne had no choice but to find the only other man, apart from a musketeer, who just might oblige her.

She found him by the gates, his cape fluttering behind him as he gracefully and effortlessly mounted his horse. She couldn’t help but admire his muscular legs and sculpted build. He was not unhandsome. In fact, if Marianne had been older or had a different temperament and different interests, she might have developed strong feelings for him. She suspected he felt the same way. For now, they shared a mutual respect and a basic liking towards one another. A liking that was born out of being forced to tolerate each other’s company in unescapable circumstances. After all, they had both been prisoners of their superiors’ will and command. 

“Are you leaving?” she called out to him, a hint of disappointment in her voice.

“Yes, Mademoiselle, I will not be back until the end of the convention.”

Seeing her disheartened expression, Rochefort dismounted and strode to where Marianne was. He gently lifted her chin with his gloved finger. He had an unexpected tenderness about him that soothed her. Rochefort was not naturally a man of a soft heart, but something in Marianne’s demeanour and her candid expressions appealed to that side of him. He couldn’t tell if it was her obvious naivety, or the fact that she tried to hide this naivety, or that subtle innocence about her, or her eccentric pursuits; but she was interesting, honest and unspoiled. Unspoiled in all aspects, he sniggered to himself. Rochefort himself abhorred inexperience in the bedroom. He would never assume the role of a teacher nor the emotional responsibility of his partner. Although Marianne was beautiful, her virtue made her completely unappealing to him in that regard. No, he preferred his women with experience, with defined desires, with perverted ideas that he was certainly always willing to oblige.

“There has been some high-profile robberies and other incidents. I must go investigate,” he said, announcing the reason for his departure.

“Is it serious?” Marianne was concerned.

“I doubt it. Anyway, there is no need to worry, my men and I have it under control and will arrest whoever is responsible.” Marianne admired the confident way in which he spoke. As if he had already done what he said he would do. It was that same authoritative way that earned her respect when he confronted Rameau. Rochefort’s confidence, however, masked a deeply seated uneasiness. Something about these incidents seemed familiar: the last time something similar happened was when the Iron Mark was at large. His reason told him that it was impossible. That the Iron Mask had died in the explosion on Belle-Isle. And yet, his gut feeling warned him of something sinister. So, he set off himself to investigate instead of leaving it to one of his subordinates.

“I don’t doubt you will,” smiled Marianne, encouragingly.

He inclined his head in acknowledgement of the compliment, kissed her hand and remounted.

“Oh and,” he turned around, “I don’t want you to worry about Rameau. I have someone watching him at all times and he wouldn’t dare to come near you. In any case, we will discuss this matter at length upon my return.” Without any further elaboration, he rode off.

* * *

“Quietly,” Porthos hissed. He took off his cape and placed it on the wooden floor before him, gesturing towards it.

After her unsuccessful encounter with Rochefort, Marianne walked back to the exhibition hall, completely disheartened. It was empty now as everyone had gone to the lecture hall. Monsieur Descartes was rapidly becoming one of the most interesting and prominent philosophers of their time and Marianne was missing this delectable interaction for no reason other than her being a woman. She sighed loudly.

“What’s with the face?” a familiar and friendly voice startled her. She turned around and the figure of the brawny and handsome musketeer stood in the doorway. Marianne skipped over towards him, her droopy expression automatically transformed to a beaming grin.

“That’s more like it,” Porthos said, laughing. Marianne gave him an account of her morning, expressing her distress over missing the lecture in such a theatrical way that made Porthos laugh and feel the need to ease her agony at the same time. She was delightful to him: all he wanted to do was to pick her up in his arms and twirl her around. Her pouty expression was absolutely adorable; he could have kissed her right then and there.

As it happened, he had come to lock the exhibition hall and return to his post in the lecture hall. He informed her that the hall was still empty as the attendees were finishing up their tea. Luckily, Porthos was to stand guard on one of the upper balconies overlooking the podium, making it a perfect hiding spot.

After successfully sneaking her in, he quickly realized that this balcony was not intended for an audience: there were no pews or stools. But that seemed to matter little to Marianne, who could barely even contain her excitement. She quickly sat down on Porthos’ cape, her back to the wooden wall of the balcony. She bent up her knees and neatly placed her notebook on her legs for support. Out of the pocket of her dress, she produced a small ink bottle with a quill. To make her neck more comfortable, Marianne untied her hair and shook it out. It fell down in waves of dark and lustrous auburn, framing her face and resting on her décolletage.

It was all Porthos could do throughout this whole time but stop himself from gawking at her in admiration of both her beauty and her dedication to knowledge and advancement. He was flooded with a warm sensation throughout his being, as if standing by her was like standing by a fire on a cold winter night; he was alit with both tenderness and passion at the same time.

The lecture began as Monsieur Rene Descartes saluted his audience from the podium. With her quill poised, Marianne put her nib to the parchment and began scribbling as M. Descartes launched into his theories. As the lecture continued, Marianne’s hand, as if moving by its own mind, was fervently printing equations, statements, and tracing rough drawings and sketches. To Porthos’ astonishment, although she was not able to see what was being demonstrated, she was accurately drawing out the same shapes with accompanying equations as the illustrations M. Descartes presented, based on description alone.

Porthos was in awe; he felt as though he was being privy to an exclusive and spiritual experience, similar to those he’s heard Aramis mention in one of her sermons on saints and religion. It was as if Marianne was outside of her body, as if nothing else existed for her except for these obscure symbols and numbers. To her, mathematics had a way of the mind to its inevitable flow, to shape it into a vessel for its very expression. It was her spiritual calling, her solace from the world. It was philosophical; it made sense; it was very the language of the universe, and that of God. Besides, unlike people, it was reliable. It never promised affection, never disappointed, never died. It never betrayed her nor made her lonely.

Suddenly, the fervent scratching of her quill stopped, but she was still alert, listening intently. She tugged at Porthos’ sleeve and he bent down slightly.

She whispered to him, “Ask him what happens if we are faced with an indeterminate problem that involves an infinite number of solutions.”

Porthos’ jaw dropped. Had she lost her mind?

“Go on, ask him!” she pleaded, as if it was the most normal thing in the world to do.

The musketeer was frozen in place. How could he possibly? Not only was it completely out of his place to do so, but he also knew next to nothing about mathematics. He was thankful he could count his coins. He shook his head fervently and looked at Marianne severely. She stared back at him defiantly and then turned away. Was she disappointed? She’ll get over it. He won’t make a fool of himself in front of all these people and certainly not for the sake of a woman. He was nothing but a musketeer and he was there for the sole purpose of protecting the King. But then again, Marianne wasn’t just _any_ woman. And Porthos wasn’t just _any_ musketeer. Was he afraid? It was certainly not a situation he was comfortable with. It was something outside of his realm and what he knew. Suddenly, he felt vulnerable and unarmed, a feeling he hadn’t felt for a very long time, perhaps since his adolescence, since he first joined the musketeers and Captain de Treville would parade his weaknesses in front of his comrades, exposing every small fault in his technique and form.

So, is this how the mighty Porthos acts in the face of a new challenge? Has he gotten so comfortable with his life that he can content himself to hiding behind his musketeer’s cassock?

It had been a while since Porthos had asked himself who he was and what he wanted from life, and now with Marianne in the picture, he was forced to wonder: what kind of a man did she see when she looked at him? More importantly, what kind of a man does he _want_ her to see?

The real Porthos, of course: the brave, courageous and invincible Porthos who faces his enemies and challenges head-on, without hesitation, without any fear or misgivings.

_Well, here goes nothing._

Porthos put out his hand and cleared his throat loudly. M. Descartes stopped and addressed him, “Have you got a question, Monsieur?”

The entire hall collectively turned around towards Porthos, including the King and the Cardinal, who were confused and bewildered, respectively. No one knew what to expect, really. Even Marianne herself was astounded. It only just dawned on her that, while her request seemed reasonable enough to her, it was only the normal thing to do for people in her circle but it was completely out of the ordinary for someone like Porthos.

But there he was, standing upright with his back straight, unflinching, proud and speaking clearly, repeating the question Marianne had asked him. Marianne looked up at him, her mouth agape, completely struck by this raw display of courage. Her eyes shimmered with absolute admiration. He suddenly appeared bigger to her, like a god from a mythological legend whose mere presence could crush an entire civilization. He was indeed a force of nature, not just physically, but also in spirit. In this moment, he appeared to be larger than life itself. Next to him, she felt humble, small and insignificant. But mostly, right then and there, it became clear to her that she was desperately and hopelessly falling in love with him.

There was a moment’s pause in the room that felt like an eternity. Porthos could hear his own heart pounding and wondered if everyone else heard it too and if that was the reason that nobody spoke yet.

Then, whispers broke here and there and M. Descartes caught wind of the fact that the individual with the question was none other than a musketeer. M. Descartes was a man committed to freedom of thought and expression. He was also a man of large character who abhorred hierarchy and repression. As such, he was flattered that this musketeer thought his work interesting enough and valuable enough to pose a question.

“An excellent question, Sir. Let us begin by examining the Four-Line Problem. We may arbitrarily choose lines of known length for each unknown line to which there corresponds no equation…” ** 

There was a loud applause at the end of the lecture that followed a heated debate. The attendees filed out of the hall while Marianne gathered her things.

She stood up, facing Porthos, their gaze locked intently. The truth was that she had shaken him to the core. She had made him feel vulnerable and exposed, had made him question who he was, presented him with a challenge, all of which were things he had never experienced or felt with a woman before. He didn’t know what to say to her.

On her side, her mind had shut off completely, giving way to her heart which was overflowing with admiration. She felt such joy, such wonder, such pride and affection - all of which were things she never experienced or felt towards a man before. But what could she possibly say?

She placed her hand gently on his chest, stood on her toes and touched his cheek with her lips. He trembled at the touch of her lips. He reflexively placed his hand on the small of her back and closed his eyes. With his other free hand, he felt her fingers intertwine with his. She lingered for a while longer, neither one wanting to let go.

Marianne reluctantly disengaged from him and turned to leave, their hands untangling ever so slowly and in spite of themselves. She smiled at him, mumbled a thank you and quietly left the hall, unnoticed.

**The quote for the solution of indeterminate problems was taken from this resource:

.edu/entries/descartes-mathematics/#BooOneDesGeoAna


	11. Jealousy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *** This chapter is intended for comic relief (: ***

Capitaine de Treville was a man of a built and composed stature, typical of his rank and training as a solider. He carried himself always with a proud uprightness, his hands neatly placed either by his side or enlaced behind his back. But in this moment, Capitaine de Treville was having a difficult time maintaining his usual self-composure; his steps were hurried and heavy, almost stomping; his hands were flailing about his person like a madman, as they accompanied his babbling speech that alternated between apologies, discrete curses and threats to severely punish his underling. And so, in this manner, the Captain of the Musketeers accompanied his monarch as the Royal procession made its way back to the Cardinal’s residence for luncheon and a repose.

He was simply mortified and embarrassed, not to mention enraged. How dare Porthos make such a spectacle of the musketeers? And without the permission of his superior!

“Really, Treville,” the King’s interruption was timely, as a profanity was about to escape Treville. “There is no need to make a fuss. It was harmless and quite frankly, amusing.” Then, looking around him to make sure Richelieu was out of earshot, he leaned closer to him, and whispered, “Something that has been severely lacking these past few days.”

The King admired Richelieu’s passionate interest in the arts and natural philosophy, given that he himself was never able to fully cultivate these interests. A week-long convention in this sphere was thus beyond His Majesty’s capacity in terms of both interest and capability, but he did not want to disappoint his Cardinal by his absence. Especially that the Cardinal had been a pillar of support and counsel following the affair of the Iron Mask. 

“And who would have thought! Of all your musketeers,” the King roared with laughter, “Athos, I would have imagined. Aramis, even. But Porthos! Imagine that!” the King shook his head, and dabbed at his eyes that teared up with laughter.

The Cardinal had caught up to them, and seeing the mortification on Terville’s face, he attempted to restore some soberness into the discussion, “Still your Majesty, Monsieur de Treville is right. It was out of turn and a rather scandalous display. I’m sure if you’ll consider…” The King put his hand up, interrupting the Cardinal. He then stopped and turned around to face his two most-trusted men, “I think I’ve heard enough of this now. Quite honestly, I’m rather tired and I think both Philippe and I should retire for the rest of the day. It’s much excitement for my brother.”

At the mention of his brother, the King scanned the procession searchingly, “Say, where _is_ Philippe?”

The two men followed the King’s gaze. Then the Cardinal spoke, “Probably gone on one of his usual walks, Your Majesty.” The Prince had developed a habit of randomly disappearing and going off on his own, unnoticed by anyone. He generally kept quiet and to himself, so it would take some time before someone realized his absence. At first, it was odd and suspect, but then they would always find him strolling the gardens, tending to some flowers, or simply in a corner somewhere engrossed in a book. The King eventually ceased to worry and it became an acceptable activity. No doubt Philippe was more used to solitude than company and preferred to be outdoors as opposed to being cooped up inside, attending to boring matters. Giving him these little freedoms were nothing, when one thought of the horrors his brother must have endured all those years in captivity!

The King sighed, “Treville, send the musketeers to ensure his safety and please inform him I have gone up to my chambers to rest and that he is welcome and advised to do the same before dinner.”

* * *

The musketeers of Monsieur de Treville knew their Capitaine better than their own selves. They could easily tell what mood he was in from simple gestures. For example, in this moment, a prominent vein in his right temple was engorged and throbbing, his forehead creased with furrowed eyebrows and his steps were more rapid and decisive than usual. He was furious. Porthos gulped and straightened up into his best soldier statute, as his Capitaine descended on him and Athos. _Here comes the storm_.

The Capitaine examined Porthos carefully then sternly said, “Thankfully for you, the King found that spectacle amusing. Now if it were up to me…” He began waving his finger at Porthos but then it dawned on him that he actually had nothing to say. What could he say? The King was right: it was comical, the high and mighty Porthos, sheepishly raising his hand and uttering incomprehensible words to do with complicated geometry at a lecture attended by prominent intellectuals. Not in a million years could Treville have imagined such a situation! And Porthos of all his musketeers!

Images of an eager and chubby adolescent with messy black curls and jolly grey eyes crossed his mind. Porthos was always the most audacious of his musketeers, the boldest, the risk-taker and the most reliable and dependable. He was the glue that held his team of best musketeers together. With his outgoingness, his easy charm, perpetual good mood, undying loyalty and devotion to his friends and his missions, he was the medium in which the others flowed and flourished. Treville had known and trained Porthos for more than 10 years now. But in those 10 years, he had never seen this musketeer with a book nor heard him speak of anything other than battles, ale, auberges, food and sometimes, women. It is precisely this out-of-character display that unsettled Treville. 

To the relief and confusion of the two musketeers, the Capitaine relaxed his shoulders, shook his head and chuckled.

“You could have at least told me you were interested in geometry and philosophy. I would have arranged a private audience for you.”

“I…” Porthos began, not knowing what to say.

“But of course, I can see that it might be embarrassing to admit to such interests for a musketeer. Think of all the mockery that could follow you. But I applaud you, Porthos. It’s a noble pursuit and interest. Although how and when you find the time to pursue it, I will never know! In any case,” he continued, without waiting for a reply from the stupefied musketeer. “Prince Philippe has sneaked off again. If you could both find him, make sure he’s alright and let him know the King expects him for supper.” With that, he left.

* * *

The two musketeers walked in silence. Athos was putting a great deal of effort in repressing his laughter.

“Well, you could have at least told _us_ about your extracurricular hobbies. _We_ wouldn’t have made fun of you at all,” Athos finally said, unable to contain his sarcasm.

Porthos shot him a look from the corner of his eye and shook his head. Athos playfully elbowed his friend, “It’s alright, I saw you sneak her in.”

The grand musketeer sighed with relief

“She’s a charming young lady,” commented Athos.

Porthos smiled, thinking of Marianne, with her auburn hair resting on her bosom.

“But you can’t be serious about her. She’s a virgin Comtesse. You don’t want to get tangled up in _that_. She’s not like those barmaids. She’s born and bred for marriage.”

“I’m not an animal who is only thinking of one thing all the time when it comes to women, you know,” challenged Porthos.

“I didn’t mean that. But even if you had serious intentions, she’s not the person for you.”

Porthos stopped abruptly and looked at his friend, questioningly, hints of anger coloring his face.

“Come, Porthos. She’s a child! She’s naïve and selfish and I have taken the liberty to ask around: she is a flaky flirt. And who knows what that uncle of hers is up to. He seems rather odd and not someone you would want to be connected to. Not to mention that strange servant who follows her around. I don’t know how he managed to convince Aramis to let him assist her,” he shook his head and continued, “Besides, look at what she’s made you do. You can’t possibly make a spectacle of yourself for her! What kind of woman asks a man to do that? I’ll tell you what kind, the _manipulative_ kind. The _spoiled_ kind.”

Porthos was taken aback. Where was all of this coming from? And since when did Athos have such strong opinions over the women Porthos courted? He barely even knew Marianne and already she was a manipulative evil to him, as were all women. Except Aramis, of course. Wasn’t Athos past that way of thinking now?

Porthos stood up straighter and puffed out his chest. “It wasn’t a spectacle, Athos,” he pronounced his friend’s name with disdain. “It was a well-placed inquiry at a respectable event.”

Athos broke out in laughter at this unexpected use of formal language by his friend. Was he mocking him now?

But Porthos persevered, his voice gradually rising, “You don’t know anything about Marianne. And what, I can’t be interested in intellectual pursuits of my own free will? I have to _pretend_ I’m interested for the sake of a woman? Do you think so low of me? Because I’m not like you, carrying my book around everywhere and pretending to be serious about everything in life?!”

“Porthos, come on. You’re blowing this out of proportion! It’s just that this whole thing is… not who you are.”

Porthos was now fuming. “Well maybe if you had been paying attention the past while, you would notice more things about your friends.”

Athos rolled his eyes theatrically, “Is this about me and Aramis again? I thought she already talked to you about this.”

“Oho! Talked to me about this! So, you and her lie in bed after making love to one another and then you discuss the matters of your poor sad friend Porthos, is that it?”

All the amusement completely vanished from Athos’ face. “I don’t know what’s gotten into you but don’t stray too far, Porthos,” Athos warned.

Porthos shook his head in disbelief, turned around and stormed off.

“Where are you going?” Athos yelled after him.

“To find Prince Phillipe on my own. At least I won’t need to use my brain for this task, God forbid.”

Athos cursed under his breath and stormed off in the other direction.

* * *

Porthos walked aimlessly in a cloud of fury. Was Athos right? After all, Athos _was_ the most perceptive of his friends and Porthos always trusted the judgement of his friend and followed him without question. 

What did he _actually_ know about Marianne? Factually, not much. But he knew how he felt when he was with her. He knew that her smiles and laughter made the world alright. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes, letting the memory of the moment they had shared in the lecture hall fill him with warmth and longing.

The lecture hall… It brought back feelings of vulnerability and feebleness. Was Marianne really trying to manipulate him into doing things for her? Was that her true character and was he blind to it?

Marianne _did_ have an air of a spoiled child about her. If he let her, he knew she can charm him into doing anything she wanted. Whether she would do it out of maliciousness, he doubted it. But until he’s sure of her and of himself, it was best to stay on his guard. None of that emotional nonsense. From now on, he will be distant with her yet friendly.

The sound of laughter interrupted his train of thought. He glanced over to its origin and saw Marianne standing with a man, giggling. She seemed awfully giddy. _A flaky flirt_ , Athos’ words echoed in his head. A pang of jealousy shot through his heart. He walked over to the couple decidedly.

“Ah, Porthos. I knew they would send someone soon enough.” Porthos stopped short, recognizing the voice of Prince Philippe. He bowed.

“Well, as you can see, I am safe and sound. No one had abducted me or made an attempt at my life,” he joked. Porthos was unamused.

Marianne looked at the musketeer in earnest, but her smile disappeared when he did not acknowledge her. She felt a tightness in her chest. Prince Philippe attempted to introduce them when Marianne indicated that they had already been introduced.

“I also have a message from the King, Sire. He recommends that you retire to your rooms to rest and then rejoin him for dinner,” Porthos declared, shoulders back, arms behind his back.

“Thank you, but I find myself enraptured by the company of this young lady that I think I might return to change just before dinner,” Then, looking fondly at Marianne, “If the lady herself will oblige me, that is.”

“Certainly! It will give us plenty of time, in fact,” she giggled and gave him a mischievous smile.

Porthos looked from Philippe to Marianne. _Plenty of time for what?_ He suddenly felt like he did not recognize her at all. The voice of Athos rang loud in his head. _Born and bred for marriage. Virgin Comtesse._ Was this her plan all along? To come to the convention to snare the best husband she could find? After all, she did attend the King’s ball with Rochefort. And now, it seemed, Prince Philippe was taken by her. What sorcery! Then what was _he_ to her? A distraction from her true quest of husband-hunting? A toy in between men? _Damn you, Athos._

Marianne gestured to a nearby bench. “We could do it there, it seems comfortable and well hidden, too.” She said that last part with a wink.

Philippe nodded with a twinkle in his eyes. Then, he turned to Porthos and said in a low voice, “Porthos, what you are about to witness and what I am about to do with Mademoiselle Marianne must remain a secret at all costs, so I will rely on your understanding and undying discretion.” With that, the Prince patted Porthos’ arm then took Marianne’s hand in his and led her towards the bench.

As his gaze followed them, Porthos’ eyes widened in horror at the sight of Marianne beginning to unlace her dress while the Prince watched her intently with anticipation.

Colorful scenarios flashed madly in Porthos’ head: Philippe making love to Marianne. Taking her as a mistress. Worse, as a wife! Then back to making love to her again. Marianne gloating, in that golden dress of hers, that she had found a husband right at the heart of court. And not just any husband: The Prince himself!

Athos’ words dominated his thoughts. He was paralyzed; all he could do was stand by and watch as another man became intimate with the woman he…the woman he what? Loved? What was she to him anyway? How could this even be happening?! How _could_ she? For a moment in time, he thought she was his. He thought she cared for him. And the Prince! How could _he_? No, he had to put a stop to this at once!

“Your Highness forgive me but I cannot allow this,” he declared, through clenched teeth, breathing like a dragon.

Marianne stopped abruptly, her gaze sharpened and she snapped at him, “Are you so against one’s pursuit of one’s passions, Monsieur?”

Ah, she addressed him with the title. “Only when done outside of the confines of propriety, Madame,” he retorted.

Marianne’s heart sank, her breathing becoming short and intermittent. He seemed to waste no opportunity to express his rejection of her.

“Come now, Porthos. I know this is out of the ordinary but if there is anyone who would understand, I am sure it would be you. In fact, why don’t you join us?” the Prince offered.

Porthos was shocked at this indecent offer. _Join them?_ “I am a musketeer of the King, Your Highness, and it is my duty to uphold the Crown’s honor and this is not honorable.”

The Prince was completely astonished. Marianne was confused. Porthos never expressed any objections or made rude remarks when he learned about her secret hobbies and interests. He even helped her attend the lecture. He even put himself on the line for her. Suddenly, a feeling of emptiness filled her. He’s changed his mind about her. He didn’t care anymore... 

“Perhaps it is better I leave,” Marianne muttered.

“I agree,” said Porthos, disdainfully.

“I have to say, Porthos, I am thoroughly disappointed in you. Of all people, I did not think you would harbor such ill feelings towards educated women.”

“It’s the actions taken by the women, not their education.”

“Truly, Your Highness, I’ll just leave, I have caused you much trouble already…”

“Please remain seated, Madame. Porthos, _you_ may leave if you think this is a disgrace, but Marianne and I are committed to this act.”

Enraged, Porthos turned and left. He glanced back at them one last time.

What the…? Marianne had produced a notebook from the inside of her dress, where she had unlaced it, along with a quill and ink bottle that Porthos recognized from earlier.

Philippe looked at her warmly and took her hand in his, “Thank you once more for agreeing to be my tutor.”

“Your…tutor?” Porthos spat, slowly approaching the bench again.

They both turned to him.

Prince Philippe was indignant, “Indeed. Mademoiselle Marianne has agreed to give me a few lessons in geometry, physics and philosophy so that I am not completely at loss in this event. But seeing as how you disapprove of any kind of advancement and education for women, I suggest you leave.”

The disgrace! Porthos suddenly felt like the biggest ass in the world. He was nothing but a crass and ignorant musketeer. Athos was right, after all. How could someone who thinks in vulgarity be interested in anything remotely clever? His face flushed crimson.

“No, I certainly am not against that. At all!” he stammered, “Forgive me, I… had no idea…That is, I thought you were…” He trailed off, stopping himself before he uttered anymore stupidities.

Prince Philippe looked at him coldly, then he raised one eyebrow and slowly spoke, “What exactly _did_ you think we were about to do?”

“Err… I…”

Marianne suddenly broke out in hysterical laughter. She understood everything now. Porthos blushed a deeper red, lowering his head in shame. To say he was a fool was a generous understatement at this point. Not only had he doubted her, but he also insulted her, insulted the Prince and had made a rather inappropriate and vulgar insinuation of them both.

Philippe looked from Marianne to Porthos, his eyes widening as it finally dawned on him. His cheeks turned a glorious red. “I will pretend that I am but a naïve chap who knows very little of the world and the ways of men so we will not pursue this any further,” he said sharply, unimpressed with the musketeer.

The Prince shook his head and turned back to Marianne, who was trying hard to quell her laughter and focus on the contents of her notebook.

Porthos, still submerged in his shame, went and stood against a tree opposite them to keep watch. He would do best to imitate the tree, he thought to himself. Quiet, composed, mature and oh, yes, quiet. Less talking out of one’s behind and more observing and perceiving. It wasn’t just Marianne who behaved childishly after all.

Marianne caught his eye once or twice, giving him one of her charming smiles which melted his heart. After having cleared the misunderstanding, everything felt right once more. Athos can say what he likes but Porthos was definitely falling in love with Marianne and nothing could change that.

* * *

Aramis was staring out the window of her assigned bedroom. The bedroom she shared with Athos.

“Long day?”

She had been lost in thought that she almost jumped. It was only thanks to the sturdy pair of arms that enveloped her that she was able to retain her balance. Athos couldn’t help but feel slightly put off by her reaction. It had an unusual hint of rejection to it. Yet he thought it best to brush it away before it ate up at him. he concentrated his attention instead on depositing tender kisses onto the satiny skin of Aramis’ neck.

“We’re making some progress,” she exhaled, leaning back into his kisses.

“With the Dandurand assistant?” he ventured. He didn’t know why he mentioned that but a part of him wanted to know.

She nodded. He could feel her body tense up.

“Rochefort imparted some interesting news before he left,” he attempted to change the subject.

“Oh?”

“Do you think it’s a coincidence that all of these robberies are happening at the same time that we just rediscovered the Iron Masks’s chamber?”

This would have been a good time for her to tell him about Rameau. About what she heard that night while on patrol. But what would she tell him exactly? That the night started off with an indecent dream about Gerard de Villebois making love to her? That she found herself pinned underneath him less than an hour later? That she _liked_ the feeling of his body on her?

She began to panic. Athos had already suffered enough betrayal in his life. Any small suspicion will no doubt ignite something painful for him. The last thing she wanted was to hurt him. Besides, there was nothing going on between her and Gerard. Nothing at all.

She had this under control. She didn’t need Athos every time she faced a challenge. She was a musketeer. She could take care of missions on her own.

“You seem distant,” he finally said, breaking away from her.

“Just tired,” she smiled at him and led him to bed.


	12. Yin & Yang

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to write this chapter to go into a deeper analysis into the character of Marianne and Porthos, especially into the sphere of their attraction. They are two very different people from different backgrounds so I wanted to explore how they would meet in the middle.

**Chapter 12: Yin and Yang**

The following days proved to be profitable and enjoyable for everyone. Through his lessons with Marianne, Prince Philippe was able to fully appreciate the events of the convention. He was now well-versed in most concepts and topics discussed to the point that he engaged eagerly in the lectures, held discussions and participated in debates with several prominent philosophers. He had found a new sense of confidence and mastery that enabled him to thrive – a feeling he never thought would be possible after all those years in captivity, followed by his difficult adjustment to court life. But with the help of his new tutor, something had been reignited within the being of Philippe: something that he thought he had lost forever; something that might have even died with Francois.

To show his gratitude, Philippe would take notes from the lectures to pass on to Marianne during their next rendezvous. He would also arrange for her to attend salons of private discussions. For that, he had to obtain permission from the King, who was all too happy to grant it upon seeing his brother so radiant and lively. In fact, Philippe’s newly acquired disposition had excited the attendees of the convention, including the Cardinal, thereby alleviating the heavy burden from the King for having to endure what he perceived as a hellish boredom. As such, Prince Philippe had quickly become the Royal patron and supporter for the arts and natural philosophy. He had also become an unlikely ally in Marianne’s quest for knowledge. 

There was never a moment wasted: when they were not in a convention-related function of one kind or another, Prince Philippe would retreat to a hidden place where he would dedicatedly resume his lessons with Marianne, either going over some basic concepts, or poring over some new information he had garnered, which Marianne had to first familiarize herself with it before explaining it to him. 

For Marianne herself, these activities served her unquenchable intellectual appetite to a great degree and gave her a sense of a higher purpose that is commonly found in imparting one’s knowledge onto an eager pupil. Even though these reasons should have been sufficient enough to ignite her perpetually curious spirit, what really put the spark in her eye and a constant smile on her face was the charming company of her pupil’s assigned guardian: the musketeer Porthos.

Seeing as how the three of them had developed an easy and pleasant dynamic, Philippe had appointed Porthos to be his official guardian - another request the King was happy to grant. And so, to Marianne’s delight and excitement, Porthos was present by Philippe’s side at all occasions, allowing her the opportunity to sneak some longing gazes at the musketeer, admire his figure at her leisure and lose herself in all kinds of daydreams.

Porthos couldn’t have been more grateful for his new post. What he expected would be a tedious and dull event had instead placed him among the company he desired most. From his angle at Philippe’s side, he was granted liberty to discretely admire this woman who was captivating him like none other; but not just for her looks. At every turn, she impressed him with her quick wit, her calculated speech, her razor-sharp focus and the depth of her familiarity with a subject.

What he began to understand about Marianne was that she existed in a duality. There was the Marianne that he knew well enough by now, the Marianne who melted his heart - _his_ version of Marianne: the animated and radiant young woman who was full of life, laughter and innocence, with an obvious but endearing inexperience and naivety. Then there was _this_ Marianne who had held a cold reserve and composure, a concentrated serious expression and who addressed others with such directness and condescension. Sitting in these salons surrounded by these men, one could even go far as to say that Marianne herself could have been a man from her manner, and that the only thing giving her away was simply her dress.

She was proud and passionate. She was fiery in her spirit but icy in her manner. Like the dagger he had given her, she was precise, elegant yet deathly in any debate. He could tell the men in the room became uncomfortable with her presence. When she spoke, her preciseness was commanding; she never uttered words that were unnecessary. In a way, she reminded him of Athos.

_Athos._

They had barely spoken since their argument. Thanks to his new post, Porthos was successfully able to avoid his friend and his sermons about the “evils of women”. He had hoped that Athos’ relationship with Aramis would have wiped away all the bitterness caused by his earlier marriage but perhaps some shards ran too deep. Athos hadn’t tried to approach him either, being engrossed in the events of the convention himself.

Porthos’ attention was snatched back to the room by an indignant cry of one of the men in the salon. It was followed by laughter and attempts to console him from those present.

It would appear that Marianne had conquered another adversary in a debate. Porthos beamed. His body reflexively straightened up, his chest puffed out and his head was held high with pride. Yes, that was Marianne. _His_ Marianne, he longed to say. These moments of victory on Marianne’s part elicited such a strong and urgent desire in his being: he longed to hoist her up by the waist and kiss her ever so passionately.

Aside from this surge of arousal that these debates brought about in Porthos, he actually found himself drawn to them for other reasons; they were as much duels as any sword fight, save that the weapons were different and the stakes were lower. Yet the dignity one lost or gained was still the same. In this world, Marianne was a master, a conqueror, a queen; whereas he was just an observer, a less-than, an unarmed bystander who - should anyone involve him in this - would probably need her protection and assistance.

Throughout his life, Porthos was always mocked for his lack of abilities when it came to matters of intelligence, such as counting one’s coins or concocting an action plan. People always automatically assumed he had neither the interest nor the capacity for intellect. So, no one ever bothered to talk to him about things like books or philosophy. Being a man of a good temperament, he never let it get to him, even if it did bother him sometimes. In the end, he had begun to assume that this was simply who he was, nothing more. But back there in the lecture hall when he ventured his question, _that_ felt good; it felt good to be admired and respected for one’s intelligence and for one’s curiosity.

Alas, his world was a world of neither. He was a musketeer. But with Marianne, there was a new possibility. He could be someone else with her. She could show him things, teach him things.

At first, he had been reluctant to reveal this side of himself that he perceived as lacking for so long. Especially to someone like Marianne. What would she think of him? She was so advanced in her expertise; he couldn’t bare to think just how little she would think of him.

Besides, the last thing that he wanted was to be subjected to one of her condescending and icy attitudes – a weapon in her character she frequently wielded. However, during her lessons with Philippe, he saw in her a compassionate and engaging teacher. Her very passion for her craft, as expressed by imparting it, had melted the frigidity of her exterior, creating a sphere in which she only permitted those who were respectful and curious enough to enter. Those she trusted and judged to be worthy. Marianne had walls that ran high and thick, but the way she behaved with him, the ease in which she found herself to be in his presence was unmistakable: she trusted him and judged him to be worthy.

And so, even to his own surprise, Porthos found that he was genuinely interested in whatever she taught. He would listen in closely and observe, eventually daring to pose questions and ask for explanations every now and then, which Marianne had responded to with such patience and delicateness.

On her part, Marianne was fully aware of the degree of courage it must have taken the musketeer to overcome his very pride in admitting to something he did not know nor possess. After all, he was a man and a musketeer on top of that. Pride and ego were the currency of this category of persons. In her eyes, he had grown even larger, augmenting her admiration for him. His courage was beyond anything she had ever witnessed in a person. For what is true courage if not that which we employ in overcoming our own selves and demons? By doing this, it signified to her that he trusted her fully: he had given her a fragile part of himself, one that she vowed inwardly to protect, nurture and encourage like a young and fragile bud. She thus assumed the role of the guardian and keeper of this cherished gift he had given her, an instinct born out of love and the ebb and flow between their beings.

In the same spirit, Porthos himself had assumed the role of her protector and guardian in the ways he knew best: with his sword, his force and his heart.


	13. Lessons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the previous chapter, I took a more of an analytical dive into the characters. Here, I wanted to delve more into the dynamics with a few scenes from the lessons Marianne is giving Philippe at the convention. I wanted to watch these characters interact and see what happens!

**Chapter 13: Lessons**

Prince Philippe sighed with exasperation, gently smacking his book onto his knee. He looked at Marianne imploringly.

"I just can't seem to understand how Galileo arrived to the description of phases for astronomical objects," he complained.

They had spent the last hour on their first official day of lessons going over the same illustrations and calculations repeatedly. Marianne was already pacing, her hair had become dishevelled from repeatedly combing through it with her fingers to calm her nerves and keep her frustration to herself. She looked to Porthos for some help but he only shrugged his shoulders.

Her hand massaging her neck, Marianne stopped moving and stared at a random point in space. Eventually, the solution dawned on her.

"I think it best if we should start from the very beginning to refresh ourselves. Are you familiar with the Ptolemaic model, Your Grace?"

"I am, actually. I had updated myself as much as I could from the books I found at the palace. What I can't seem to understand is the link between what Ptolemy put forth and Galileo's assumptions."

Marianne snapped her fingers and grinned.

"Ah, it isn't your fault, then, Your Grace, but mine. The missing link here is the model set forth by Copernicus, on whose work Galileo built his hypothesis and proved it with his observations of Venus."

Marianne, now imbued with a new sense of purpose, sat on the edge of the bench, opened her notebook and dipped her quill in the ink.

"Let me thoroughly explain this from the beginning. After all, to know the basics is to hold the keys to..." Philippe unexpectedly chimed in, completing her sentence, "…to the very heart of truthful knowledge."

Marianne was surprised. She was sure she hadn't uttered this phrase to him before; she would have remembered, for these were her uncle's most famous words to her. He would speak them instead of "good morning" and "good night". In fact, Marianne had made up her mind that, should she bury her uncle someday, she would inscribe these very words onto his epitaph and have them written in his obituary. But perhaps they were not so unique since they seemed to have reached the Prince, of all people. It was bizarre, nonetheless.

"My tutor used to always say that to me. Unfailingly," Philippe explained, gently shaking his head with his eyes closed and a light smile on his face. The image of Francois poring over Philippe while he was attempting to write out verb conjugations in Latin, came into his mind, filling him with a bittersweet nostalgia.

"He must be a clever gentleman, then," Marianne smiled.

"He was," Philippe opened his eyes, a sad smile now decorating his features. Marianne seemed too absorbed in the diagrams she was drawing to notice the change in his demeanour. Philippe was relieved; it wasn't a subject he preferred to discuss, especially at this time.

Porthos looked down at his feet in contemplation. He knew of Philippe’s tutor, Francois - Aramis' murdered fiancé. He was loved not just by her, it seems. Porthos wished Aramis would talk more of him. Actually, he wished he knew her story from when she first joined them. He would have comforted her in her grief, lifted her up, helped her avenge him. How different she must have been with Francois! He often wondered about this man and what he was like. Probably a lot like Athos. One thing he never doubted was that Francois must have been an extraordinary gentleman and an honorable man of a pure heart and soul. Aramis would never have done what she had done otherwise.

To think of the grief Aramis must have felt! Grief was something Porthos had never truly experienced to a full degree. He had lost people he loved in his life, but it was only the natural course of events. But to have one's belove murdered in cold blood… What would _he_ have done? He felt the blood rising in his ears as an image of Marianne, stabbed, bleeding and lifeless violently intruded his mind. He shook his head vigorously. He couldn't help but wonder, though. Would Marianne do the same thing for him if she loved him? Would she be capable of doing what Aramis did? More importantly, was he himself a worthy man as Francois was?

...

The three companions sat on an elegant criss-cross spread placed on the grass, enjoying the delicacies carefully selected by Porthos and chatting animatedly while he refilled their glasses with his recommended wine-of-the-day selection. He did most of the talking, recounting stories of his adventures with such theatrical gestures, eliciting all kinds of reactions from his audience. He was a fantastic and gripping storyteller.

These little pauses in the day and the company of Marianne and Philippe reminded Porthos of his friends. A few days into their lessons now, Porthos realized that he missed Athos and Aramis. They were the home he returned to after a long day; whether in a tavern, in one of their houses, at a brothel, or on a mission. He returned to _them_. He especially missed their evenings together, spent in jolly company with ample food and drink, with Aramis making jokes at him and Athos recounting his latest conquest, prompting yet another sermon from Aramis.

But that was before. Before Aramis' secret came to light. Before Aramis and Athos. Things used to be different, seamless, their dynamic flowed effortlessly. Now, there were some complications; some adjustments that made things less smooth. Porthos would sigh and then willingly bring himself back to the present moment and to the delightful company of this young lady who seemed to have such a hold on him.

The time spent in those moments was special to Marianne too. She looked forward to them with every ounce of anticipation. Porthos was such fun to be around; his genuine candour, authenticity and generosity made her feel so much at ease. With him, she felt she could say whatever she wanted and _be_ whatever she wanted. With him, there was a new possibility. She could be someone else with him. He could show her things, teach her things. Not to mention his mere physical presence: so commanding, so powerful with his beautifully sculpted body. She felt safe and protected when he was around.

He was a wonderful host, too, she remarked. They had never hosted events nor received guests at her house, so Marianne was never cultured in the art of hospitality. Perhaps one day, they could host guests together. She blushed to herself.

On their third day together, before lunch, Philippe had been struggling with a problem that Marianne had presented him with. He was sitting on the bench, a book opened to his side and a notebook placed on his lap, his quill poised in his hand, while he absent-mindedly chewed on the feather top. He scratched his head.

Marianne, who was pacing behind him, her hands enlaced behind her back would peek down at his work periodically. She was examining him. Porthos observed them with tenderness. Philippe and Marianne were similar in so many ways: they both had an unmistakable innocence about them. They were intellectual curious people with a tendency for reclusiveness. And yet, they were of a genuine sort, candid in their expression and incapable of deception. Their initial reserve, however, came about differently: while for Philippe it came about as a certain nobility and slight adorable eccentricity, Marianne's was haughty and off-putting.

"You're very close, Sire," she said, taking another peek. It was taking long. Porthos had already set up the picnic and was impatiently waiting for them, but Marianne refused to release Philippe.

These lessons with Marianne had made Philippe nostalgic. Whether it was the nature of their relationship, the dynamic of the exchange between them, or his own biases and memories, Philippe couldn't help but register remarkable similarities between his deceased tutor and his current one.

Francois was always passionate about what he taught, he read and consumed so many books in his life. He was well-versed in anything and everything. Nothing ever escaped him and he constantly kept himself up to date. Sometimes, Philippe used to feel such a pity that Francois, with his great talents and potential, had to whither away as his guardian, locked up in a manor in the country with him. Francois had deserved better. A better life and certainly a better ending.

"Perhaps we can resume after luncheon?" Philippe looked up at his tutor, attempting his most charming smile. In certain poses, Philippe could have sworn he saw parts of Francois in Marianne: The way the nose curved, the shape of the face and the eyes and occasionally, when Marianne tied her hair in a bun, it took on a mahogany brown hue instead of the dark shimmering auburn. But then again, it had been a while since he had seen or heard Francois, so it could be just a mind trick, a false memory. Wishful thinking, even. The dead didn’t come back.

Marianne put her hands on her hips, she cocked her head up and sniggered condescendingly. A mocking gesture Francois used to often assume. Then, Philippe intuited exactly what she was going to say before she said it. He just had a feeling, a deja-vu.

"Perhaps if you put as much effort into your attempts at the problems than escaping them, you would finish faster."

And there it was. How uncanny!

Francois' famous retort whenever Philippe was frustrated with his task and begging him for a break. He stared at Marianne a bit longer than what was appropriate. He was about to ask her something when he felt himself being suddenly engulfed by a large shadow. Porthos was leaning over, looking at what Philippe had written, while taking a bite from an apple, producing a loud crunch and drops of spit that landed on Philippe’s person.

"Hmm… if you bring the coordinate of 'x' to this side of the axis and move 'y' to the positive, then you would obtain the solution to the equation. Here, like this," Porthos took the quill from Philippe and scribbled something down. "There," he declared.

Marianne's jaw dropped. She looked down at the notebook and saw he had written the exact solution to the problem.

"Upon my word, Porthos," Philippe cried.

With a triumphant look, Porthos took another bite from his apple as his companions gazed at him.

"What can I say? The Mademoiselle is a good teacher," he winked at her and resumed his seat at the picnic.

As they sat down to eat, it soon became evident that Porthos was on edge. Something was troubling him. Eventually, the cause of anxiety came to light when he announced that Capitaine de Treville had given them orders this morning that they were to leave on a 2-week long mission the day after tomorrow. To prepare them for it, he had given them the day off tomorrow to relax.

Marianne looked downcast. "That's a long time…Is it dangerous?" she asked in a little voice.

He smiled at her, "I don't suppose so. It's only investigative."

Philippe, trying to lighten the mood, "Say, Porthos, what do musketeers do on their days off?"

Porthos laughed heartily. "Well, let's see: sleep, eat to one's heart's content, frequent the tavern, spend the night with a woman or two," he quickly bit his tongue. Boasting of one's conquests in front of a woman one is trying to court, _Well done, Porthos_. He looked at Marianne cautiously, but she seemed not to have noticed, lost in her own thoughts as she were, absent-mindedly chewing on a pastry.

What did she imagine would happen between Porthos and her anyway? The convention would end in a couple of days and then she would go back to the country, to her remote home. To her life, where everything was so grey and lacklustre. Would she even see him again? He would probably forget her in a few days' time. Like he said, it'll probably take a woman or two one night and then snap! She would be gone from his memory and life forever. And if not, if he really cared for her and loved her, what would they do? It's highly unlikely that a musketeer would take a wife. A mistress, perhaps. Yes, she could be his mistress for a while. But until when? Until she had to marry someone she didn't love? Or until Porthos found another woman to bed?

"Do you know," began Prince Philippe loudly, attracting Marianne's attention, "I have never been to a tavern before."

Marianne, intrigued, chimed in, "Me neither. I've never even had ale before, come to think of it!"

"I hear taverns can be such fun and I daresay that after all the work we have done these past few days, we deserve a good time," declared Philippe.

"Hear, hear!" Marianne cried with laughter.

Porthos was laughing when he abruptly stopped upon seeing a serious look on their faces. Silence. He understood: This wasn't a statement. This was a request. He waved his hands frenetically to exhibit his rejection of the idea

"No, no, no," he exclaimed, "Absolutely not!"

"Come, Porthos! I'm sure you know a place nearby."

Porthos fervently shook his head.

"Very well, then,” the Prince said decidedly, “I did not want to do this but you've forced me: I _order_ you to take us to a tavern tonight."

 _No, not a Royal order!_ Porthos groaned loudly.

Relenting, he sighed and muttered, "I _may_ know a respectable establishment not too far from here. It's frequented mostly by travelers and people of high rank."

"Respectable! But that won't give us the true taste of a real tavern experience!" Marianne protested. She had that same pleading childish tone as she did at the lecture. Oh, if he let her indeed, she could charm him into anything. But he knew better how to handle her now. She could try all she wanted but he will not give in to her.

"Listen here, Madamoiselle, either we attend the establishment of my choosing or we do not go anywhere at all. What will be your choice?" he spoke sternly to her.

She was slightly taken aback by his rough reply, but she relented to him in the end. She couldn't help but feel an electricity in her body as he spoke to her like that. She bit her lip and blushed as an image of him spanking her crossed her mind.


End file.
